


By Any Other Name

by wkemeup



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternative Universe - FBI, Angst, Arson, Drug trafficking, F/M, Forbidden Love, Hydra, Mafia AU, Sex, Slow Burn, Smut, Torture, Undercover Missions, Vaginal Fingering, but theres a happy ending i promise, canon level violence, implications of sexual assault, lots of mentions of tea and books, peter is reader's cousin, smut with feelings, so much fluff and then i rip everything to pieces im so sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:47:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 28
Words: 145,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23054956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wkemeup/pseuds/wkemeup
Summary: Special Agent Bucky Barnes has been known by many names. He’s used to taking on new identities and dismantling criminal enterprises from the inside. When he’s tasked with infiltrating Hydra and gathering evidence against its leader, Brock Rumlow, Bucky finds himself drawn to the woman who doesn’t seem to belong in this world of violence, the wife to the head of Hydra… you.
Relationships: Brock Rumlow/Reader, James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Comments: 224
Kudos: 377





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> What’s in a name? That which we call a rose  
> By any other name would smell as sweet;  
> So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call’d,  
> Retain that dear perfection which he owes  
> Without that title.  
> { William Shakespeare }
> 
> Series playlist can be found here: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2tXmTjLGCn52f4stWo8KTI?si=gg9ZbNFHTSehbGc_q6U9Ig

If there was one thing to know about Bucky Barnes, it was that he didn’t back down from a challenge; certainly not one from a former fighter pilot with a superiority complex and a loud mouth. 

Bucky stared down the end of the ring, circling with careful, steady steps as he sized up his prey. Sam Wilson rolled his eyes, a slight shake of his head, because he didn’t know quite yet the humiliation he was about to experience. 

It had been a while since Bucky had knocked Sam’s ego down a few notches and it was about time someone did _something_ about his less-than-charming attitude. Sam was starting to talk a big game in front of the rookies and, well, Bucky couldn’t have them thinking Sam was some kind of Bureau legend.

“You gonna make a move or what?” Sam jabbed, throwing his arms out to the side dramatically. He let out a groan that echoed through the rafters of the training gym. Always the dramatic one. 

Bucky snickered under his breath, patient, as he continued eyeing up Sam from the distance. 

His left arm was clasped behind his back, wrapped with tape meant to secure his fist in the ring, and he stretched the fingers in his right hand against his hip. A soft cracking released the air between his joints. 

Sam was the one with the brilliant idea to make a bet, in front of a cafeteria full of agents, that Bucky couldn’t get an opponent on the mat one-handed. It was a foolish mistake he was about to regret. 

Bucky charged at Sam, catching him off guard as he let out a grunt from the impact of Bucky’s shoulder diving straight into his stomach. Sam kneed him up into his chest and shoved Bucky off of him, full force of both hands straight to his collarbone, and sent him spiraling to the ground.

“Not so easy, huh?” Sam taunted, winking over at a the young female agent with strawberry blonde hair sweeping down her shoulders as she watched from beyond the ring. Sam didn’t seem bothered in the slightest when she rolled her eyes at him and passed a few dollars to the agent on her left, nodding towards Bucky. 

Meanwhile, Bucky was back to his feet, jumping around on his toes, loosening his muscles and got back into position. His only free hand was held in front of him on the offense, his feet positioned slightly more than shoulder width apart, and he bent his knees, giving him the flexibility of movement and agility. 

He didn’t give Sam another chance to provoke him before threw a hit to the side of Sam’s jaw, enough to get him off balance, but not to leave bruising. Bucky knew better than to throw full force with a friendly in the ring, no matter how much of a pain in his ass Sam was, but it would certainly give him the advantage he needed. Maybe leave a red mark for an hour or so. Just enough to make him regret betting against his own teammate. 

Sam stumbled back from the impact of the hit and Bucky made a quick turn for a roundhouse kick where he’d usually use his left hand for additional damage. Sam grunted, knocking away Bucky’s leg before it could land and rushed at him. He got in a good hit on Bucky’s left side, but that was an easy move – some might say, a _coward’s_ move – as he was defenseless on his left.

Though when Sam attempted to get him on that side again, Bucky turned his shoulder, blocking his left side from the attack and grabbing Sam’s wrist midair with his right. Sam looked at him with wide eyes, in shock, before Bucky simply smirked and kicked his right leg to the back of Sam’s knees. 

He let out a yelp as he knees buckles and it sent him tumbling onto the mat with a heavy thud. Bucky quickly took the advantage and threw the full of his bodyweight on Sam’s back. He settled in, purposely digging his tailbone into Sam’s spine and pushing as much as his weight onto him as he could. 

He sat there, whistling to himself as Sam started to scramble under him. The rookies were laughing under their breath as they watched in hoards beyond the edge of the ring. Seemed Sam’s challenge made rounds in the rumor mill and the new recruits wanted a front row seat to the Bureau’s top agents facing off in the ring. 

“You gonna get your fat ass off of me, tough guy?” Sam grumbled, trying to pull himself from under Bucky, but it was no use. 

“I don’t know, man, are you gonna apologize for thinking you had any chance in beating me in the ring, even with one arm tied behind my back?” Bucky taunted, grinning ear to ear as he glanced up to the ranking board hung from the rafters from their year in the academy. Sure, he was listed at number two, but his ego wasn’t big enough to believe he’d ever take first when the All-American-Golden-Boy Steve Rogers was in play. At least he wasn’t sitting at fourth place like a certain incapacitated agent he knew. 

“ _Bite_ me, Barnes!”

“Maybe I will, don’t temp me.”

“I’m going to kill you. I’m _actually_ going to kill you.”

_“What in the hell are you two doing?!”_

Bucky looked up to find Steve pushing his way through the hoard of rookies gathered off the side of the ring watching the match with handfuls of cash passing between pockets. Steve shoved his way to the front of the crowd, hands on his hips as he saw the two of them at the center of the ring. He slumped his shoulders, a heavy sigh on the exhale. 

“Do I have to ask?” he rolled his eyes, gesturing to Bucky’s hand tied behind his back and Sam’s constant wiggling around as he tried to escape from under Bucky’s weight. “You realize you’re acting like children, right?”

Bucky shrugged. “It’s not my fault he can’t keep his mouth shut.”

“I am going to mess you up _so bad_ ,” Sam threatened under his breath, but it was loud enough Bucky could hear it, so he leaned further against Sam’s back, adjusting his position as he wacked Sam on the back of the head. It pulled another groan out of him, at least, as he continued to try and crawl his way out. 

“Hey dummies,” another voice called, low and sultry, carrying over the rafters in an echo and sending a hush through the rookies despite the calm nature of the tone. 

Red hair tossed in a bun at the nape of her neck with loose strangles hanging out the sides, Natasha Romanoff eyed Bucky and Sam amusingly before she turned to Steve with raised brows. He shook his head in response.

“What’s up, Nat?” Sam asked nonchalantly as he propped his chin up on his hand, as if he wasn’t currently pinned under one-hundred-and-eighty pounds of muscle.

Nat smirked, lips pushing out as she leaned against the ropes of the ring. “Fury’s looking for us. We’ve got a new job.”

Steve started to break up the crowd as Bucky pulled himself to his feet. Sam, he noticed, was rather dramatic as he used the ropes for support and clutched onto his back as he walked, sending glares in Bucky’s direction.

“You gonna help me get this tape off my arm?” Bucky called after him, rather annoyed at his current predicament, but Sam only scoffed. 

He ended up roping some doe-eyed recruit from the Naval academy to unwrap his wrist and unwind the tape trapping his left arm to his side. The kid’s hand shook nearly the whole time.

***

Fury noticeably wasn’t pleased when he found Bucky and Sam shoving at each other like teenage brothers as they made their way into the conference room. Natasha was already seated at the front of the table, closest to the Director, and Steve was leaning against the wall, arms crossed as he sent them a warning glare. 

Bucky nudged Sam one last time and sent him a short wink before escaping to the chair closest to Steve. Sam slid in beside Natasha and they turned to the Director. He only had one good eye unobstructed by the black patch that sat over veined scars protruding from underneath and even still, Bucky could tell Fury had enough. 

“Now that we’re all settled,” he started calmly, though there was an accusation in his tone. Sam slumped into his seat as Fury slid a series of folders down the table, one for each of them. A projector lit up against the wall, displaying an image of an octopus-like creature with a skull for a head and six curving tentacles emerging from the center. 

“Hydra?” Nat questioned, surprised as she grabbed one of the folders from the middle of the table. 

Fury nodded, hands on his hips. He was proud, it seemed, like he’d been waiting on this one for a while. 

Bucky flipped open the file, a name listed in the top corner that was not his own, unlike the rest of his team sitting around him. Under it, an entire lifetime’s worth of history, of family memories and previous employments, of likes and dislikes. Bucky glanced over it, taking note of the important bullets, like the one that said he had a meeting with the head of Hydra in one week’s time.

It wasn’t the first identity he had taken on and he didn’t suspect it would be the last. Bucky Barnes had spent more of his time since his discharge from the Army and recruitment to the Bureau playing the part of a criminal than as himself. 

He had an exceptional ability to compartmentalize, to lock himself behind the walls he worked tirelessly to build. It was the reason he was able to so easily lose himself to any identity handed to him; read the file, learn the backstory, become someone new. It was refreshing, in a way, to escape from himself and into someone else entirely.

No strings. No commitments. Only the case. Only the end results.

Damn the collateral damage. 

His first cover was in an underground sex trafficking ring a few years back in Atlanta where he operated under the name Brian Victor. He worked his way into the system, posing as a John, walking amongst the likes of vile and heinous men, and dismantled the entire system from the inside, rescuing near sixty-seven young, terrified girls who had been kidnapped and brought across state lines. 

After that, he was employed on a weapons manufacturing plant in Alaska where he took on the role of Alex Smith, a low-level crewman on the shipment yard where mariners were importing illegal bumps and accessories from Russia. That job took him nearly a full year to complete but he didn’t mind that much. He’d liked the locals, poor suckers who found themselves roped up in a scheme far greater than any of them realized. He’d been sure to advocate for their release when they were taken in with the higher-ups. 

Only a week after the final trial, Bucky was given a new identity; one named Chris Roswell, a street seller for an extensive drug trafficking operation in Santa Barbara. Part of his identity was to infiltrate a crew of gang members on the west side that recruited vulnerable kids who shouldn’t have been out on the streets in the first place. He didn’t care for Chris Roswell much and he was happy to be rid of the character once the supplier was taken off the streets. 

In his most recent job, he spent few months as Noah Crestal, a wealthy businessman with an inherited trust fund, who ran with spoiled rich kids and call girls and disassembled an entire underground gambling ring in Baltimore. 

But he was never alone.

While he was on his own in the field, he had a team who kept an eye on him, watched his back, hacked into security systems, and made sense of the evidence he retained.

There was Steve Rogers, the team leader and Bucky’s best friend since childhood. An asthmatic, lanky sort of kid with a startling knack for trouble who grew up to be twice his own size. He finally learned to fit his reckless attitude into a body that could support a few punches and currently held the physical training course record at the Bureau. 

Then, there was Sam Wilson, a grade A pain in Bucky’s ass and a damn good fighter pilot in his air force days. Sam was responsible for making sense of the evidence Bucky brought back from his undercover meetups and monitoring for talk on Bucky’s identity, to ensure his cover was secure. When he wasn’t relentlessly mocking Bucky and flirting with the rookies, he was a decent agent and a better friend. He was a brother in arms and off the field. Fought like one, too. 

The last of the crew was Natasha Romanoff. A woman with more fire power in the tips of her fingernails than most men had in their entire body, Natasha was an ex-KGB agent who defected to the US following a shitshow of trauma and general maltreatment by her home country. She was the primary tech god in the Bureau and spent most of her time these days behind a keyboard. She’d spent enough time in the field and she wasn’t eager for more. 

This team was what allowed Bucky to take on new names, to dive deep undercover into new identities without fear of losing himself completely. There was always a hand stretching out to him to pull his body back to the surface when he needed it. He’d seen a lot in his years in undercover work, been asked to do things to protect his cover he’d never talk about again outside of his debriefings with Fury, and it was easy to forget who exactly Bucky Barnes was under all those lies.

His team kept him in track. It’s what made them so successful, how they were able to go from one city to the next, throw Bucky into a criminal underworld with a new name, and bring massive operations to justice. 

New name. New city. New criminals to take down.

James Karpov was just the next name on the list.

“Rumlow’s down a hitman,” Fury explained, clicking the remote on the slide as a man with dark brown hair and cold, brown eyes appeared on the screen. 

Bucky had seen that face before. He’d heard about the infamous mafia boss Brock Rumlow and his extensive team of lawyers who have been able to get him out of every charge the NYPD has been able to throw in his direction. 

He saw to the distribution of fentanyl laced drugs to the street of New York, the manufacturing of assault weapons, and the ordering of dozens of executions in the last month alone. He was a monster by anyone’s standards and Bucky could already feel the eagerness churn in his stomach. This was a job he was going to enjoy. 

“This is Jack Rollins,” Fury said as an image of a mug shot appeared next to Rumlow’s. “He was Rumlow’s last enforcer before he had the unfortunate luck of actually being arrested for his crimes. Damn field day down at the DA’s office when they finally nailed him.” Fury clicked to the next image as a crime scene photo displaying a very discolored Rollins lying with his eyes open, arm handing off the side of the bed. “He was also conveniently murdered in lock up while awaiting trial just a few days ago.”

“Bummer,” Sam snickered, nudging Natasha’s shoulder and earning a smirk in response. Rollins was behind dozens of murders under his time in Hydra. It was no real loss.

“This is our opportunity to infiltrate Hydra,” Fury continued, ignoring Sam’s remark. He leaned further onto the conference table, black leather of his trench coat swinging at his knees. “Barnes will meet with Rumlow next week to take on the role of the enforcer.”

“So, like a job interview?” Natasha raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. 

Fury shrugged. “Yeah, I suppose.”

Bucky thumbed through the file, skimming at the pages of information on Rumlow and his known associates; glancing over decades of monstrous crimes and gruesome crime scene photos. It was all pretty standard, nothing exceptionally out of the ordinary, except for Rumlow’s inflated ego and knack for theatrics. 

The pages were filled with crimes he’d been arrested for, crimes he’d been suspected of, and the all the ones in between. Each with their own summary as to why he was never brought it, why the charges were dropped, or how witnesses suddenly went missing hours before the trial, how evidence disappeared from lock up before it could be submitted to the court. Brock Rumlow was an entitled piece of work, it seemed, though that was no news to Bucky. 

Then, towards the back of the file, Bucky stumbled upon a single page nestled into the binding, one that took him by surprise because the image in the top right corner wasn’t that of a mugshot or one taken from a surveillance camera, it was an employee ID from Columbia. 

A bright, vibrant smile and eyes that lit up on the page, it seemed incredibly out of place amongst Rumlow’s rap sheet. Below the image, accomplishments were listed of various degrees held, charity functions hosted, employment at a prestigious university teaching courses in literary fiction and writing composition. All of which seemed to come to an abrupt halt three years ago. 

Bucky wondered if the page had been put in his file by mistake. That was, until he saw the last name listed in the top right corner. 

Y/n Rumlow. Wife of the head of Hydra.

Fury straightened his back, glancing down at his team as they absorbed themselves in the files, Steve already making notes in the margins as Natasha pulled out her laptop and the small clicks of her keyboard filtered through the concentrated silence. Sam was on his phone, calling up a contact from his former air force days who might have had some knowledge of the Rumlow family, but Bucky… Bucky was still stuck on the last page, the page with the woman who didn’t seem to fit in this world of crime and violence.

“Get acquainted with your new identity, Barnes,” Fury ordered. “We’re taking down Hydra.”


	2. One

“It’s a pleasure to bring you on board.”

Bucky nodded, pushing out a tight-lipped smile as he shook the hand of a man he thoroughly despised. Firm grip against his palm, almost painful, like a challenge and an assertion of dominance, Bucky released his hold to find an imprint of white outlined on his hand. He grunted at the feeling, massaging at the muscle in his palm.

Brock Rumlow turned to look out to the window as he poured a glass of single malt scotch. He held up an empty glass in question and Bucky gave a slight shake of his head in response. Rumlow shrugged, surprised by Bucky’s refusal, and poured an extra shot for himself. He swirled the amber liquid, savoring the burning scent of expensive alcohol before he took a sip. He pursed his lips as the scotch ran like heat through his chest.

“You know, I’ve been looking for a replacement for Rollins for quite some time. I’m sure you’ve heard of his rather _unfortunate_ accident in county lock up,” Rumlow said, the snide smile on his face a less than subtle allusion to his involvement in the suspicious circumstances of Rollins’ asphyxiation alone in his cell.

“I appreciate the opportunity to prove myself, sir,” Bucky responded shortly.

“See, this is why I like you.” Rumlow grinned, pointing in Bucky’s direction with the hand wrapped around the crystalline scotch glass. “You’ll be a crucial addition to Hydra, James Karpov.”

Right. James Karpov. It was a nice enough name.

It just wasn’t his.

A soft knock echoed against the door, one Rumlow didn’t seem to notice. After a moment too long had passed, Bucky turned to find the edge of the door squeaking open; small, delicate fingers curled around the edge of the frame, and a beam of sunlight from the hallway seeped into the dark shadows of the office.

“Brock?” a voice called, soft and melodic, almost hypnotizing in its gentle inflection. It was kind in its tone, something that took Bucky by surprise because he didn’t expect to find something so sweet amongst the underworld of Hydra.

You stepped into the room, brightened shine of a red sequined dress clinging tight to your curves and golden jewelry sitting delicately upon your neck. The reflection of the sunlight caught on the sparkle of your dress, reflecting into the room like the pristinely carved edges of a gemstone and Bucky couldn’t take his eyes off of you. With lips painted red and a soft wave of carefully curled hair fallen over your shoulder, you were almost entirely unrecognizable from the picture he’d seen in Rumlow’s file.

The woman with the messy bun and the bright, cheesy smile; a professor at Columbia who held numerous degrees and gave lectures across the country. Only now, you looked more like one of the socialites he’s seen pictures of in the front covers of magazines along the grocery aisles or one of Manhattan’s most prominent elites.

You glanced over at Bucky, noticing his stare as you closed the door to the office behind you. Your jaw was clenched as you looked him over, almost as if you were sizing him up, checking for the weapons you’d find strapped at his waist and ones you wouldn’t adhered around his left ankle and the knife hidden the clasp of his belt. Still, you offered him a tight smile in acknowledgement before you turned to Rumlow again.

Bucky narrowed his eyes, surprised to find a sad, almost distant look in your gaze, an uneasy sway in your stance and ankles that wobbled on the stiletto heels. You tugged on the edge of your dress, trying to push it lower on your thighs, but it bunched up again the moment you let go. You let out a huff, fingers gripping onto the fabric and holding it to where you were comfortable.

It wasn’t an attire you were used to, he realized.

You cleared your throat again, hoping to get Rumlow’s attention, though there was a hesitancy there. Brock remained still, staring out the window of the second story of the home and out into the acres of land stretching into the backyard, the skyline of Manhattan in the distance.

Your eyes flickered nervously back to Bucky as you shifted your feet, rolling out your left ankle and leaning against the desk for relief.

“Brock,” you called again, a little more urgently this time, less patient in your tone, and Bucky noticed how quickly you straightened your back, standing firm on your heels and releasing the comfort of the chair to lean on as Rumlow turned around.

“Baby? What did I tell you about interrupting my business meetings?” Rumlow grunted, a grit in his teeth as he placed the glass of scotch on the edge of his desk hard enough for the liquid to spill up over the side and splash a droplet onto the marbled oak.

You swallowed, unfazed by the sharpness in his tone and your lips curved into a frown. “The car’s outside. You don’t want to be late for dinner with the commissioner, do you?”

Rumlow nodded, easing through the tension of his shoulders, though there was a lingering disdain there that caught Bucky by surprise. “Right, of course.”

He wasn’t pleased with your interruption, that much Bucky was able to tell. Rumlow threw back the rest of the scotch, a considerable amount to take in one swig and he eyed Bucky’s direction before turning back to you. There was a wicked kind of grin that curved at his lips as he realized Bucky was still in the room, observing quietly. Rumlow extended an arm, gesturing for you to come closer and there was a moment of hesitancy before you made your way to his side.

“James, this is my wife,” Rumlow said, nodding to you, though he noticeably didn’t give your name. His arm was draped around your waist, hand gripping at your hip enough to press divots into the muscle though you tried to etch out of his hold.

“Y/n,” you added, extending your hand and Bucky took it with a soft smile. He knew.

Your grip was firmer than he expected given the reservation of your demeanor around your husband. It was like an echo of the woman you were before Rumlow, Bucky realized; the woman who was sharp and witty and feisty in every exchange, who once taught literary fiction at Columbia, who single handedly ran charitable boards for Ovarian Cancer research, opened Creative Arts programs in public schools, and led the construction of open access libraries across the city of New York.

You were a woman who held numerous graduate degrees, the top of your class. An academic. A fighter.

He wondered when you started to hide those pieces of yourself away.

“It’s a pleasure, Mrs. Rumlow,” Bucky said and you clenched your jaw, almost flinching as if burned by the name itself. Not quite sure why, he quickly corrected himself to specify, “Y/n.”

You smiled at that, a brightness coming back to your eyes and for a moment, there was an innocence there, a kindness, that left a jarring kind of ache in his stomach. It seemed almost out of place, your smile, amongst the glitter and gold you wore, like it was something much kinder and softer than the mask you seemed to be wearing. It was comforting, inviting, and despite himself, he wondered whether he’d have a chance to see it again.

Rumlow cleared his throat, pulling Bucky from his gaze. You dropped his hand quickly and Bucky nodded, swallowing back the dryness in his throat as he met Rumlow’s eye. He was looking at him suspiciously, noticing the way you chewed on your lip, vibrant eyes fading as you looked down at the hardwood floors.

“We’re all set for today, Karpov,” Rumlow said sharply, ushering you to the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow for debrief.”

“Yes, sir,” Bucky replied, hands clasping behind him as he took a step back to allow him room to pass by. As Rumlow escorted you from the room, Bucky could feel your eyes watching him, studying him, and a soft churn in his stomach.

It was a new feeling; one he hadn’t had in years.

He tried his best to ignore it. He had a job to do, after all.

***

The following day, Bucky arrived to the massive mansion on the outskirts of the city in the early hours of the morning. He was told by the security at the front gate that Rumlow wouldn’t be available for the day’s debrief for several hours.

It was a frequent occurrence, it seemed, judging by the slight snicker in the guard’s voice. Rumlow apparently had a long night down at the Lernaean, Hydra’s elite club and front for their illegal ventures, which would explain the dress you were wearing the night before.

Must have held the meeting with the commissioner within their own businesses, Bucky figured. It was a risky move, to bring a city official into the underground, but Hydra was never one for subtlety. Hell, the name of their club was taken from the Lake of Lerna in ancient Greece, the mythical portal to the underworld and the home of the monster, Hydra.

They were a theatrical sort of criminal.

And still, they owned the city and everyone within its borders knew it. The only problem was the fact that no one had been able to do a damn thing about it for decades. They had their hands in every level of government, in every aspect of life within the city. They were untouchable.

Fury hoped that Bucky’s new position within the inner workings of the criminal empire would prove to be their best shot in bringing Hydra to the ground. It was the _only_ shot they’ve had in years frankly, and Fury stressed there may not be another opportunity like it again. It was crucial there were no mistakes, no hold ups, no distractions.

Hoping to get some time to explore the home and familiarize himself with the numerous rooms, Bucky was more than happy to kill a few hours alone in the mansion. It might provide an opportunity to put bugs around to get some ears for Nat. She’d appreciate that, anyway.

Bucky stuck his hands into the pocket of his bomber, feeling for the slight notch in the fabric where several tiny pieces of the remote listening devices were held. He gripped at one, small enough to barely cover a pinky nail, and pulled it from his pocket. Glancing around, finding no one in sight and leaning against the wall, he tapped the bug to the underside of the desk on his left, securing it in place before moving on.

He placed another five bugs around the living room, the kitchen, the hallway, on the staircase, though he paused by the end table in the main room. It was the center of the home, the easiest point of connection, and Bucky knelt down, feeling underneath.

He should have some sort of escape plan, a backup if things went south, so he pulled the small handgun from his waist and adhered it safely under the table with some duct tape he’d found under the kitchen sink. It was crude, but hell, it worked. Throwing himself to the frontlines of Hydra called for some reinforcement protocols, after all.

Bucky began to make his way to the back office, hoping to get a few bugs where Rumlow conducted most of his work, when he heard a humming echo down the hall.

He narrowed his eyes, surprised to find anyone else awake in the home as the security had told him the rest of Hydra’s enforcements knew better than to show up earlier than eleven.

The melody was light and sweet, gentle as it carried through the vacant and cold hallways in sharp contrast. There was a familiarity in it, one that brought him back to when he was young and his mother used to sing to him when the shadows started to look like monsters, to bring a little light back into his world. It was hypnotic, alluring, and he followed the sound further into the hall as if it was a siren’s call, treading carefully on his feet as he explored into the dimly lit corridor until he came upon an open door.

Inside, Bucky was surprised to find a room lined from floor to ceiling with shelves full of books, a couch at the center covered in piles of blankets, greenery and flowers hanging from the ceiling, potted plants over by the windowsill, and a warm cast of sunlight streaming in through the window. The entire house was decorated with dark undertones, sharp and modern furniture, and an aesthetic that left him feeling cold and distant, but not this room.

It was the warmest room in the house, in color and feeling, and he should have figured it was your voice he heard as he finally spotted you gazing at the wall of novels on the left side of the room.

You were still humming as you paced around, hair tied up away from your face as you strolled along the bookshelves, a finger tracing along the bindings in search of a particular title. You had traded in the dagger heels and the red dress that clung to every curve in favor of a faded college sweatshirt two sizes too big for your frame and light wash jeans ripped at the knees.

Bare feet padding along carpeted floors and a blanket draped over your shoulders, you were like an entirely different person, though, Bucky suspected this was the version of you that hid under the surface, the woman he read about in his files. He was foolish, he realized, to think that your strength and fire had faded under your closeness to Rumlow. No, you were just more strategic about when you brought it back to the surface. 

You knew when to put on the mask and the dress and be who Rumlow wanted you to be. You were reserved, withdrawn, with Rumlow in the room, but the moment you were on your own again, left to your own devices, you were as bright as you’d always been, like this room, tucked away within the darkness of the home but still growing, still breathing and absorbing the light.

Bucky stood at the door, peering in just enough to see you but not enough for you to notice his presence. You yanked a book suddenly from the shelf with an excited yelp that nearly startled him into giving away his position. Clinging the novel to your chest and grinning ear to ear, you plopped down onto the couch, curling up under the blanket and grabbing your steaming cup of tea from the end table.

He swore he’d never seen someone smile so wide when they thought no one was around to witness it. It was all your own.

It wasn’t something he planned on interrupting.

As Bucky retreated from the doorway and back into the hall, it took him a few steps back into the darkness to realize he was smiling himself.

***

Nearly a week later, Bucky began to understand the inner workings of Hydra and his role as Rumlow’s enforcer. He’d been given leniency by the Bureau, the authority to operate outside of the law to his judgment, because anything he committed under this identity could never surpass the surplus of crimes and destruction Rumlow was responsible for.

He knew the expectations of his position when he agreed to take this job, so he knew it would eventually lead him to bloodied fists, to violent interrogations, and government coordinated efforts to hold up his cover when Rumlow eventually ordered more than a rough lesson for one of his low-level suppliers skimming off the top or an enemy from a rival gang who stepped foot into his territory.

For now, he was overseeing shipments and taking note of the seemingly random coordination of weapons drops. The Bureau had been trying to figure out the schedule of their weapons acquisitions for years now and even from the inside, the pattern appeared at random.

Fury was patient though; he knew it would take longer than a week to bring down an organization as far-reaching and intricately designed as Hydra. It could take months, _years_ maybe, and Bucky was prepared to see it to the end. He knew the devastation and impact Hydra had on the city, in the community, on the streets.

They flooded drugs through the neighborhoods with addictive properties beyond anything the Bureau’s ever seen. They hustled local families out of their businesses and sank them below the surface into so much debt, they turned to something worse to pay back what they owed. They corrupted young, bright politicians looking to better their city and fed them money and lies to look past the shipments delivered past midnight at the pier and the dozens of dropped charges over the years from the district attorney who received an extensive donor contribution from Rumlow himself.

It was all a shit show. The NYPD was in over their heads, and try as they did, there was no bringing down a criminal enterprise when the whole system was stacked in their favor. It would take someone like Bucky, planted on the inside, quietly taking notes of trade deals and briberies, whatever it took to bring them down, so that when the time came, it wasn’t just Rumlow they’d throw behind bars, it would be every last member of Hydra they could throw charges at. They’d ensure it stuck this time. He’d be James Karpov until he had the means to do so.

It was strange though, interacting with the Hydra members.

Most were the kind of men you’d expect; well trained, fit, thick headed with a startling lack of empathy and remorse. Some, though, were fathers with children who had gotten in over their heads and owed a debt beyond payment, who volunteered to pay off the loans with service to Hydra. Others were local business owners whose profits dipped in the last quarter and Rumlow demanded their labor at the shipyard to make up for the loss as he threatened to run their business to the ground.

Bucky wasn’t sure what to make of those men. It wasn’t anything he’d found in the files. It would take time, additional effort, to determine which of these men were blackmailed into service and who reported willingly. Another few months on this job, he figured.

It was coming up sunset when Bucky found himself standing at the front door of the home, watching as Rumlow conversed with the driver of an expensive black Maserati at the end of the driveway. He was wearing a tux, heading to some expensive gala he bought his way into because as much as Rumlow loved his power and his fortune, he loved parading you around on his arm to the elite of New York nearly as much.

He dressed you up like a doll, catering everything about you from your clothing to your makeup to your demeanor to fit his ideal. It was night and day, watching the difference unfold in you from the moments he’d seen you around the house; book clutched to your chest as you attempted to slide out of the kitchen unnoticed as Rumlow and his men sat in the living room drinking expensive whiskey and scotch, cat calling as you disappeared, to a woman in a dress worth more than Bucky’s apartment, in heels that could pierce through skin, and a hardened look on your face you wore like a mask.

Part of him wanted to ask how you’d ended up in a world like this when you seemed so reluctant to take part, when you hid away in a room all your own, and seemed to flinch at your husband’s touch.

He hadn’t spoken to you since he first met you in Rumlow’s office, but he’d seen you around. He’d press his lips into a thin line and offer a tight smile when you walked in the room. You always seemed surprised by that, narrowing your eyes on him almost quizzically, before you escaped back to your library.

There was a sadness you carried, Bucky noticed, and it only seemed to dissipate when you were alone, when you were holed up under blankets with warm tea and nose deep in a book far away from Rumlow’s reach. You were a complexity and an enigma wrapped in one.

The soft clicking of heals against the hardwood floor grabbed Bucky’s attention, forcing him to blink a few times in rapid succession to bring back his focus, and he turned to find you descending from the top of the stairs.

Dressed in the most stunning shade of emerald green, you held onto the bannister as you watched your every step down the stairs. Left hand gipping tight to the fabric of your dress to hold the hem above your feet, your ankles were wobbling in the height of the shoes. Your jaw was clenched, frown etched over your lips and a slight redness in your eyes that left a kind of hollowness in Bucky’s chest he couldn’t quite place.

He wondered if you’d been crying, trying to cover the evidence with makeup and shiny dresses, and his felt his hands closing into fists by his side. It took until his nails dug into his own palms to realize what he was doing and he released them, though there was still a lingering tension.

As he watched you hesitate halfway down the staircase, glancing down at the open door where Rumlow was already down by the car and Bucky noticed, with a jolt in his chest, as your shoe caught against the edge of you dress before you took your next step.

He darted forward, bounded up the six remaining steps in two leaps as you started to lose your footing, a brief yelp escaping you, before Bucky grabbed onto you, keeping you steady.

You struggled against him for a moment, startled by the sudden embrace and the fact that you weren’t currently face planting down the stairs. Bucky was met with wide eyes, parted lips, a slight gasp, and he realized he was too close to you when he noticed the intricate details in the colors of your irises.

He released you carefully, making sure you had a hold on the bannister. “Sorry, ma’am.”

You shook your head, still in shock, it seemed, because you were looking at him like he was from another planet. “No, no, that’s alright. Thank you.”

He nodded, hands clasped in front of him and he turned to walk down the steps, but he heard a tremor in your breath as you inhaled. He froze.

“Actually, would you mind…” you gestured for his arm, a slight blush of pink in his cheeks and Bucky quickly offered you his elbow.

You smiled nervously, dropping his eyes almost instantly as your hand snuck around the inside of his arm. He could feel the curve of your fingers around his bicep as you gathered the fabric at the hem of your dress again.

He only took a step down when he noticed you were ready. You nodded for him, that same brightness slowly returning to your eyes as he led you down the stairs. It was only a few steps, but he noticed your ankles weren’t shaking as much as you held onto him. Once you landed on solid ground again, you quickly released his arm, stepping a full two feet away.

“Thank you, James,” you said softly, and Bucky nearly corrected you, having done so nearly all his life as his cover name was only half of a lie, but he bit his tongue.

“Of course, Mrs. Rumlow.”

“Y/n,” you reminded him, your smile faltering only for a short moment at the mention of your last name.

Bucky chuckled a bit, easing the tension as he nodded and repeated your name back to you to imprint it in the back of his mind. Your brightness noticeably shifted depending on how he addressed you and he decided to take better care to call you only by your first name. You seemed to prefer that anyway, and he needed to get on the good side of everyone within the home if he was going to get anywhere in this assignment.

Your eyes glanced over to the guards standing across the room who were watching you through hooded stares and Bucky followed your gaze, realizing that you were as under a microscope by the rest of Hydra as you were by Rumlow.

There had to be more to your file, something he was missing. Bucky decided he’d put word to Nat by the end of the day to see what she could find out.

You walked over to the cadenza by the front door, setting your clutch against the counter and pulling out a tube of lipstick. You stared at it for a moment, twisting it from the tube and holding it up to the light. As you reluctantly moved to paint the color over your lips, Bucky found that he had inched closer to you, disliking the way the men opposite the room stared down the curves of your dress while your back was turned.

You let out a heavy sigh as you started to brush the rouge along your lower lip and even Bucky could feel the tension laced in your body from a few feet away. He wondered whether you wanted to attend this event at all or if you’d be happier just curling up into the blankets in your library and rereading old favorites.

Bucky wasn’t sure why he cared so much or why these sorts of thoughts were occupying his mind. He’d never felt any sort of attachment to targets on his previous cases before. They’d all been pawns and pieces in a game he’d work over and manipulate to get the information he needed, but something felt different about you.

He brushed the thought aside, though his eyes kept trailing back to you, watching the way you ran the tube of lipstick over your lips and the startling emptiness behind your stare as you studied your own reflection.

“Have you read anything by Hemingway? He’s one of my favorites,” he asked suddenly, surprised by his own voice and you nearly smudged the lipstick across your cheek.

Your eyes flickered over to him, confused, and you quickly started to wipe at the slight shade of burgundy over lined on the corner of your lips. You weren’t used to the Hydra agents speaking to you, let alone asking about anything outside of Rumlow’s business endeavors, it seemed.

“I noticed you like the classics,” Bucky continued and your wide eyes met his. He couldn’t help the soft chuckle that escaped him as you fixed a stay hair that had come loose from the bun at the nape of your neck.

“Yeah, I, um, I collect first editions, actually,” you replied, almost in a question as you glanced over towards your husband to make sure he wasn’t watching.

“Your library is incredible by the way,” Bucky added, making sure to keep a steady distance from you in the event Rumlow turned back in your direction. You seemed to have noticed that and a relief was evident in your stance. “It’s like something out of a museum. I’d love a chance to explore it sometime if you’d let me. It’s really impressive.”

You nodded ever so slightly, a semblance of the smile you reserved for the quiet moments by yourself curving at your lips. Your cheeks flushed slightly and you brushed your hair from behind your ear in an effort to hide it.

“Thank you, James. That’s– That’s really nice of you to say.”

You were surprised.

“Hey, any chance I could get my hands on a _Fahrenheit 451_ if you’ve got it?” Bucky asked, turning to hide his grin from the other agents in the room. “It’s been ages since I’ve read it and there’s just something about the smell of an old book that takes you back to simpler times, you know?”

You did.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever known any of my husband’s men to care for that sort of thing,” you commented and Bucky quite enjoyed the way your eyes lit up. He liked being the cause of it even more.

“I’ll let you in on a little secret,” he whispered teasingly, “I’m not like these guys _._ ”

 _“_ Seems that way, doesn’t it?” you laughed, chewing on your lip in an effort to conceal it, but it was the prettiest sound Bucky ever heard.

It was short lived though, as your smiles often were, and Rumlow called for you down by the car.

A frown replaced the curve of your lips and the wrinkles by your eyes, and you swallowed thickly, nodding to yourself, before offered Bucky a tight-lipped smile that didn’t quite meet your eyes, as you left to meet your husband at the end of the driveway without another word.

***

**T H R E E W E E K S L A T E R**

“This is good, Barnes, really good.”

Fury stood at the end of the conference table, pacing back and forth and looking over the series of papers Bucky had brought in. They weren’t much, but they had names of dealers, a few dates of expected shipments from South America hulling in illegal weapons, and Rumlow’s staff list down at the Lernaean on Thursday nights at its busiest.

“We were also able to pick up on a few key details in their production of the enhanced street drug they’re calling Cerberus,” Nat said, gesturing to the series of audio files on her computer, obtained from the bugs Bucky was able to place around the house. “They haven’t begun distribution yet, but they’re getting close.”

Fury nodded. “We’ll have to keep a close eye on that.”

“Rumlow have you doing anything serious yet?” Sam asked, a slight smirk on his lips. “You know, being a hitman and all.”

Bucky shook his head, shrugging. “He’s kept me on security and overseeing the crew down at the shipyard when products are dropped off. I don’t think he trusts me yet.”

“Makes sense,” Steve said, nose deep in paperwork. “He’s a paranoid guy.”

A silence passed over for a minute as the clicking of Natasha’s keyboard filled the room. Bucky found himself pouring his second cup of coffee for the day as he spent most of his previous night acting as a bodyguard for some pretentious local politician that was so deep in Rumlow’s pocket, he couldn’t even see the light of day.

Steve nudged his side, pointing to an image Bucky had taken on his phone of the contents on Rumlow’s desk. He didn’t have enough time alone in the room to search through it, but it was a start. Steve pointed to a stack of manila envelopes in the corner of the picture and Bucky shrugged. It was worth a second look but not even Rumlow was dumb enough to keep Hydra secrets unlocked on top of his desk.

“What about the wife?”

Bucky nearly choked on the coffee as the heat of it burned in his chest. He hadn’t spoken much to you since the night before the gala, when you wore the emerald green dress and he’d asked you about Hemingway and _Fahrenheit 451_. He’d seen you around the house since then and you didn’t leave as quickly as you used to, sometimes taking a minute to glance in his direction and offer a short, barely visible smile before you departed. It was hardly noticeable, but Bucky was trained to pick up on things like that.

He tried to ignore the fact that he found himself smiling for you, too, when you walked in the room.

“She seems like a vulnerable target,” Fury continued, narrowing an eye on Bucky and shifting in his stance. “She’s clearly intelligent but she’s also incredibly isolated. She’s got no immediate family, no friends that we can track down, no activity on social media. She’s alone.”

Bucky didn’t like where this was going.

“I want you to get close to her.”

He had never been one to resist orders. He was a military man. He followed commands without hesitations and it kept him alive for years. Only now, there was a pulling in his stomach, like his whole body was revolting against a direct order. It felt… _wrong._

Only, there was a relief in it, too, and that surprised him; to have permission from his Director to get to know the woman he was so intrigued by, so incredibly drawn to, even if it was for information.

Fury slid a file down the table. It would have continued down past Bucky if he didn’t reach out and stop it under his palm. It was thin, maybe only a few pages thick, nothing in comparison to the several inches of background they had on Rumlow.

Bucky pulled the file into his lap, flipping over the binding to find the Columbia employee ID he’d seen the day he was first brought onto the case. Bright smile, hair tossed up in a bun at the top of your hair with a few messy pieces framing down your face; there was something about you in this image you’d lost in the time since.

It worried him how much he wanted to know what that was.

“Sir, I,” Bucky started, sighing as he scanned over the little information they had on you. It felt too much like an invasion of privacy, like a betrayal to a woman he hardly even knew. “I don’t think she knows much about Hydra. It seems like she stays pretty far out of it.”

“Well find out what she _does_ know,” Fury countered. Natasha noticeably raised an eyebrow from across the table, listening intently to their conversation. “She may know more than she thinks; things around the house she picked up on, routines, Rumlow’s mood swings. Anything could be helpful here, Barnes.”

Bucky nodded, a cold chill sweeping along his spine and he tensed his muscles to shove it aside.

The part of Bucky that had become clinical and cold in his years working for the Bureau knew it would do him well to gain favor with you, for the wife of the head of Hydra to be a point of contact. You were clearly isolated and he imagined it wouldn’t be difficult to earn your trust. You already noticeably smiled more when he spoke to you, brightening for just a moment, and he knew enough about your library to use it as a way in.

You might be able to provide him with information on your husband and the inner workings of Hydra that would take him months to uncover on his own.

He’d have to get close to you, for the sake of the job.

It was what he told himself, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll be alternating from Bucky's and Reader's POV, so stayed tuned for her perspective next chapter!


	3. Two

“I thought I told you to keep these out of sight.”

Brock held up a copy of _Jane Eyre_ , waving it around impatiently as you crossed the room to take it off his hands. You held the book close to your chest, brushing your hands along the fabric of the aged binding and took in the comforting scent of the pressed paper and ink. There was a slight aroma of aged brandy that burned in your nose and you looked down at the book to find a splash of Brock’s drink seeping into the cover of the near two century year old novel.

“Sorry,” you muttered, thumb brushing against the stain, a slight tremor in your voice. You turned to leave the room but Brock’s hand caught on the edge of your dress, grabbing a firm hold of the fabric and you stilled instantly. Your grasp on the book ached in your hands.

“You forgot something, baby.”

Muscles tensing, body clenching, you took a deep breath and pushed out a smile as you turned around to face him, leaning down and pressing a kiss to his lips. He tasted of cigar smoke and liquor despite the clear blue of the morning sky outside. You held onto the book pressed against your heart like it was a lifeline as he caged you with a hand gripped into your hair.

He let you go with a satisfied hum and you exhaled a breath of relief. He turned back to the papers on his lap without another thought to you and you quickly disappeared from the living room to return the book to its home.

Chills pressing bumps into your skin, you rushed down the hall until you found the sanctity of the library and closed the doors shut behind you. Leaning against the frame, you glanced down at the book, running a hand across the blue cover, tracing along silver lettering.

The stain had dried, a slight discoloration in the cover and you clenched your teeth so tightly it ached in the muscle. You set the book back on the shelve, squeezing it in amongst _The Tales of Angria_ and _Emma_ , your favorites in Bronte’s collection.

You stepped back from the shelf, admiring the precision of it, the colorings of the aged fabric of the covers and the intricately designed lettering on the bindings. It was beautiful; hundreds of years’ worth of knowledge and art and most brilliant creative works of humanity all gathered in a single room. Hundreds of thousands of dollars spent on these shelves. It was the only thing you put your time into these days; all that Brock would allow you access to the accounts for, so you didn’t get any… _ideas._

You groaned, falling onto the couch and tucking your knees to your chest. A half empty cup of tea from the night before sat on the end table still seeping. There was a light ring forming under the cup, but you didn’t mind. It would add to the collection. Something about this place needed to feel imperfect and homey, unlike how polished and clinical as the rest of the mansion was.

It hadn’t always been this way, your relationship with Brock. You didn’t always feel so trapped in your own home, restricted to putting everything you had into a single outlet and spending your life locked away in a room your husband didn’t bother to ever step inside.

You had met Brock when you were a professor at Columbia in one of the cafes down by your office building. He had a charming kind of smile and was impossibly sweet for his stature and the scars littering his skin. He was easy to fall in love with and you supposed just about anyone would be if they were purposely catering every thought, feeling, and behavior to mold into what you wanted him to be.

He played the part of a loving boyfriend for nearly three years. You’d married quickly, with a short engagement, because he insisted he was just so in love that he couldn’t wait another second. You’d believed him because you were a girl who had grown up with an elusive father who spent more time in his office than at your recitals and scholarships ceremonies and poetry nights.

His disappointment in your love of the arts and literary fiction left a hole in your chest that Brock easily filled. Brock was the one who built the library in your shared home and encouraged you in your work at Columbia. He bragged incessantly about your accomplishments and joined you at every departmental fundraiser. He was perfect in every way, if only on paper.

Everything changed the night your father died and his millions were inherited to you, his only living child. Brock became distant and cold, and you had convinced yourself that he was grieving. He had been close with your father, after all, but the darkness never went away. He convinced you to transfer your inheritance to a joint account so he could take care of you, so you could take a step back and mourn without having to worry about paying bills and funeral costs and mortgages.

You never saw a penny of that money again.

It didn’t take long before you learned of Brock’s connections to Hydra, his apprenticeship under Alexander Pierce, and the crimes he committed in the dark cover of night when he slipped from your bed for nearly five years.

You supposed it was your own ignorance that let it go on for as long as it did or perhaps you were simply too naïve to see it, but Brock had held you down, tied and bound for years before you even felt the ropes.

You confronted him with the pieces you’d put together on his connection to the criminal world and he had threatened to turn you over to the police. It had been _your_ money funneling Hydra and you were complicit, an accessory to every crime he’d committed and the blood money he’d made since.

He had you exactly where he wanted you; trapped, with nowhere to go, no friends or family to turn to. You hadn’t even realized how isolated you’d become until you were desperate to leave. He’d found a way to separate you from the last remaining friendships you’d had before you even knew they were gone.

So, you played the part of the doting wife. You did as he asked and kept up appearances when necessary. You went to his black tie events in expensive dresses and heels because it was what he demanded. You watched as he turned your father’s wealth into hundreds of millions of dollars through drug trafficking and weapons manufacturing, all while fighting off turf wars and ordering the executions of dozens of men.

He wanted you to conform to his life. He asked it of you every once in a while, for you to take your rightful place by his side and rule the city of New York together, but you told him to _shove it_. You wanted no part in the world he dragged you into, kept you locked away in by threat of extortion. He was a monster by your standards.

Your relationship with him was surface level. It was a political move to marry you, seeking out your father’s money. He’d forced you to step down from your position at Columbia, isolating you from the last remaining ties you had. He controlled every aspect of your life.

So, you kissed him when he asked, slept with him when he came onto you, because you were going through the motions. You kept yourself secluded to the one place that still managed to bring you joy; your library.

You were content. Numb, but content.

But something was different now. You couldn’t place what it was, but the unsettled need for more was returning to the surface and you were desperate to crawl your way out again.

A cool breeze swept in through the window, startling you out of your memories, and you shivered, turning to quickly close the draft as to not disturb the delicate temperatures needed to preserve the books. Locking the window shut, you turned and leaned against the wall, gazing out at the walled lined with countless novels, though your eyes kept falling back to a certain Bradbury novel with red flames intricately designed on the cover.

You sighed, grabbing your bag from the table and quickly made your way out to the car before Brock could notice you were gone.

***

You had the driver drop you off in Brooklyn, a few blocks off from the Queens border. It was part of your Sunday routine as much as you could manage to sneak away, to come into the softer side of the city and visit the shops and storefronts you’d frequented in your time before Brock.

You reveled in the feeling of the cold breeze against your every step, hands pressed into your pockets and nose tucking into a scarf when the chill started to bite.

You stopped in at your favorite bagel shop, the one with a few of the letters missing from the sign, and ordered your usual from the kind, middle-aged woman at the register. She smiled as she saw you, giving you a quick wave, as she finished up with the customer across the counter.

Stepping up to the counter, you took in a heavy breath of the fresh baked bread and the bacon sizzling on the table fryers. It was heaven in a shop.

“Hey, Mrs. Marselli,” you greeted, eyeing the order board though you had no intentions to change your mind, “I’ll take a—"

“Oh, don’t you worry, dear, I know it by heart,” she grinned, calling your order down to the last detail to her husband in the kitchen. You hadn’t changed your order in nearly three years and she winked at you. The bagel came only a few moments later wrapped up tight in tin foil.

“It smells amazing, as usual,” you grinned and slid a few extra dollars over the counter.

Mrs. Marselli picked up the cash and narrowed her eyes on it suspiciously. It wasn’t the first time you gave her more than what the bagel was worth. “This is too much, dear. I might need to send you back to school with my grandson!”

“Hmm, guess so,” you shrugged as you backed away, giving her no chance to hand you back the change and excess dollars. “Have a good day Mrs. Marselli! Tell Jim thanks for the bagel!”

“Will do, honey! Stay warm!

The next stop was down at the coffee joint on the corner of the block. It sat next to a Starbucks that usually had a line out the door, but you liked the family who ran Café Ramos and wanted to hear about whether Neftali’s son made the school musical.

The bell rang as you walked inside, a short blast of warm air pushing through the frame and you let out a sigh of relief and pulled the scarf down from your mouth. A messy mop of brown curls jumped up from the register where it looked like Mateo was trying to take a mid-morning nap.

“Y/n’s here!” Mateo shouted back to the kitchen, waving you over and quickly preparing your cup of hot warm. “What can I get you this time? We just got a gingerbread tea in time for the holidays? What about a chocolate lavender? Could always go apple caramel, too…”

“Whatever you think, Mateo,” you laughed, handing him the usual cost of the drink and told him to keep the change. He turned to grab a tea bag from the tin box with a small gingerbread drawing in brown crayon on the front label. “So, did you get the part of Bernardo or what? Don’t hold out on me, kid!”

“ _Who knows?_ ” he sang with a huge grin, right in tune with the classic song _‘Something’s Coming’_ straight from the West Side Story score. You squealed and gave him a high five, though he tried to play it cool. Most high school juniors did.

“That’s amazing, kid! I’m so happy for you,” you bit on your lip, trying to keep in your excitement. You’d known him since he was in elementary school and he talked nonstop of wanting to nab a lead in the high school play. This was his dream. “I want a ticket when you open, you hear me?”

Mateo’s cheeks flushed pink as he pressed the lid to your tea. “Bernardo doesn’t really sing a lot but I’ve got a lot of dance numbers and we all know the Sharks are way cooler than the Jets.”

“Well, count me in as team Shark,” you laughed, taking the tea as he handed it to you. It was piping hot but the smell was intoxicating. “Don’t forget to tell your mom I said thank you for the flowers she delivered to my aunt’s house last week. They were lovely.”

“Sure thing, Y/n!” Mateo called after you as you made your way to the door. He was a sweet kid.

There was as reason you looked forward to Sundays.

Most of the stops you made on your trips alone were filled with interactions like the sweet couple at the bagel joint and the Ramos family at the café, smiles and quick questions of how their day was going, but sometimes, you’d run into people on the street who recognized you for another reason, who knew of your connection to Rumlow and Hydra and they’d take one look at you before crossing the street or disappearing into an alleyway for an escape.

You clenched your jaw as it happened for the third time in only fifteen times.

This time, it was a young man, maybe in his college years with a dark purple bruise on his eye. He was walking with his head down, he almost didn’t notice you until he bumped hard enough into your shoulder to send you spiraling to the ground, trying to escape an oncoming biker who shouldn’t have been on the sidewalk in the first place.

The rest of your tea spilled to the sidewalk and the last bite of bagel was lost to the road. You only had a few sips of the tea anyway and it would give you a decent excuse to grab another on your way home, so it was no loss to you. Though, your tailbone would beg to differ.

“Oh shit! Sorry about tha–” The kid froze dead in his tracks when he finally got a look at you. He reached out quickly and pulled you to your feet, stepping away to give you distance.

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” you said, trying to laugh it off but you recognized that petrified look in his eye. He almost certainly knew your husband you wondered what he part of Brock’s world he could possibly be involved in at an age so young. He didn’t seem to be hearing a word you said, so you tried again. “No harm done, kid. Really. I’m perfectly fi–”

“Please, ma’am, I wasn’t lookin’ where I was going,” he begged suddenly, hands shaking now as he glanced around the street nervously, like he was waiting for an attack. “Please, don’t tell Mr. Rumlow. I didn’t– I didn’t mean to–”

He didn’t even give you a chance to convince him that you’d never tell Brock something so trivial and that he had no reason to be afraid, but he bolted off before you could.

“Wait!” you called after him, but it was no use. He was already down the block, glancing back at you over his shoulder like he was running from enemy fire. A frown pushed at your lips, aching in your cheeks as you picked up the empty cup and the foil from the bagel.

Murmurs of bystanders hung in the air around you and you noticed an elderly couple whispering amongst themselves and pointing in your direction. They knew who you were and gossiped amongst themselves. You just hoped word didn’t get back to Brock, but still, these sorts of things always did.

***

When you finally made it to the bodega in Queens, you spotted your cousin sitting on the edge of the sidewalk, mindlessly scrolling through his phone, though his mess of brown hair popped up at every horn that blared in the streets, which was pretty often.

“Parker!”

Peter’s head snapped up in your direction, smiling bright in relief, and he jumped up from the sidewalk, rushing the rest of the way and crashing into you at the center of the crosswalk. His grip around you was tight and he nuzzled the cold of his nose into your shoulder.

“I was starting to think you weren’t gonna show,” he mumbled. Voice muffled as spoke against the lining of your coat. It was a rough time of year for the Parkers. The anniversary of his uncle’s death had just passed last week. You let him hang onto you longer than usual.

You chuckled, glancing around at the pedestrians as they sent you irritable glares in their efforts to step around the two of you. You ushered Peter back over to the sidewalk, not daring to pry his arms from around you.

“Come on, Pete, you know I’d call if I couldn’t come,” you reminded him. “Besides, someone has to keep an eye on you, huh?”

He laughed a little, pulling himself away from your embrace and nodded.

“What’s on our agenda for today?” you inquired, nudging his shoulder to pull that smile out of him again.

“Aunt May wanted me to deposit some checks,” Peter said, gesturing to the lump in his coat pocket. They must be condolences from the funeral. It was nearly five years ago now, but May had a hard time bringing herself to deposit them. Looked like Peter finally convinced her to let them go. “The banks out in Brooklyn though, and I know you just came from there so it’s okay if you don’t want to walk that f—”

“I don’t mind,” you replied with a shrug, hoping to ease some of his tension. “It’s a nice day and I’ve got time.”

That got him smiling, at least.

As you followed Peter along the sidewalks back to Brooklyn, you were relieved to find that he still had the energy to talk a mile a minute, telling you everything from how school has been, his progress on his latest project for the science fair, his escapades with his buddy Ned, and the kid named Flash who had some kind of vendetta against him.

“How’s Michelle?” you asked him suddenly. He nearly choked on air, coughing to alleviate his surprise and you laughed into your scarf, trying to hold it back for the sake of his ego.

“Oh, she’s—uh—she’s good,” he stuttered, chuckling nervously and running a hand through his hair. “I was thinking I might try and find this necklace for her, actually. She really likes the Black Dalilah. You know, like the murder?”

You raised an eyebrow, listening intently as Peter explained and you couldn’t help but feel grateful you weren’t in high school anymore. All these rules about how to interact with everyone and constant pressure to say the right thing. It was exhausting. Though, if you were honest with yourself, your life wasn’t much different now as it was then.

“What about you? How are things with Brock?”

You blinked a few times, surprised to look up and find you were a few blocks past where you’d last checked. You brushed a hand through your hair, shaking out the knots.

“Oh, you know, same as usual,” you said, not willing to give Peter any more detail than he needed. He knew nothing of the underground world your husband operated in and you planned to keep it that way. As far as Peter knew, Brock was the owner of a dance club in midtown. Nothing more.

There was an ache in your voice though, a slight sort of tremble that Peter usually picked up on though he didn’t force it. You felt his eyes as he glanced over at you, hands tucked into his pockets and shoulders hunched up by his ears to hide from the cold, trying to find evidence of your hurt upon your face. Your eyes were downcast, lips pressed to a frown.

He’d seen the change in you after your father died and he had thought it was grief, even for a man who wasn’t around much to begin with. He had tried to give you space but even you knew you had lost pieces of yourself that never healed again and it wasn’t because of your father.

“Come on, kid,” you huffed, swatting at his arm enough to trip him a few steps and get him laughing again, “I’ll race you to the bank.”

It was only two blocks away and you were on back alleys with minimal traffic anyway. It was something you used to do when you were younger and you’d be the one watching him after school. It was all you could do to get the energy out of the little pest.

“What do I get if I beat you?”

“ _Pride,_ Peter.”

“How about donuts from McQueen’s?” he pressed, grabbing tight to your elbow and bringing you to an abrupt stop. Alright – so he was serious now.

You narrowed your eyes. “Fine. When I win, I want churros from the street vender across the block.”

“Done.”

***

An hour later you dropped Peter off back at Aunt May’s there was sweet sticky residue of cinnamon sugar on your fingers as you waved goodbye. You pulled the second churro from your bag, half eaten, and bit down on it with a triumphant smile.

Peter laughed, shaking his head as he brushed past Aunt May and slipped inside the house. She waved at you, leaning against the frame, reminding you to not be such a stranger, before you made your way home.

It had been a while since you’d spent time with Aunt May, especially after Uncle Ben passed. Hell, it had been a while since you’d spent time with anyone, really. You worked hard to keep Peter and Aunt May out of Brock’s world.

You never told him when you met up with Peter on the Sundays you were able to slip out of the house, giving excuses of your errands in Brooklyn and spending time reading in the park. He never questioned you, never thought that you would lie to him because he thought you to be feeble and submissive.

He confused you for the character in which you played for him. You weren’t the only one who could be fooled by someone who was supposed to love them.

You sighed as you pushed your way into the front door of the home, the chill of the inside no warmer than the flutter of snow falling outside. You reluctantly unwrapped your scarf, hung your coat, and eyed the emptiness of the living room. There was a loneliness in this home you were never quite able to shake, even in the moments Brock was around. It was never his company you craved.

A chill swept up your spine and you tugged your cardigan across your chest. Hoping there might be something in the kitchen you could throw together to make soup, you kicked off your shoes by the door and scurried your way across the living room. Hell, you’d even settle for a cup of tea and a PB&J if it was all you had.

Humming to yourself, you didn’t notice the murmured voices beyond the door as you pushed your way inside.

You froze in your tracks, nearly stumbling over your feet to find Brock and a few men in suits you didn’t recognize sitting around the table, eyes all trained on you.

James stood in the corner of the room, observing, and if you hadn’t already known what he did for your husband, you would have thought he was out of place.

Even the limited interactions you had with him had been decent, kind almost, and certainly nothing like the rest of the men your husband kept under his payroll. He nodded at you in acknowledgement, hands clasped behind his back. It was subtle, but it was there. It was more than any other Hydra members offered you.

Brock’s jaw was clenched when you finally dared to look in his direction, a silent warning for you to leave the room, but you huffed, letting the door close behind you as you made your way to the stove and turned on the top right burner. You usually had a bit more defiance in you after your time with Peter. He reminded you of who you used to be.

“Gentlemen, this is my wife,” Brock announced, forced smile and tight in his tone. He never offered your name, like withholding it was another lock he kept you under; dehumanized and alone.

You could hear the murmurs of approval from his _business associates_ as you put a pot on the stove. Just as you were reaching for a can of broth from the pantry, Brock cleared his throat. You gritted your teeth and turned to face him.

“Why don’t you let Clara make something for you, baby?”

He wasn’t asking to be kind. He wanted you gone.

Clara quickly stepped in from the adjoining room, a sweet woman in her early seventies who had been working for the Rumlow family for decades and put up with far more than she should. You shook your head at her, offering a small smile as you held up your hand.

“I can manage just fine, thanks,” you replied.

“Baby,” Brock urged, the threatening nature of his voice masked under the pet name you despised, “we’re in the middle of a very important meeting.”

“You’re also _in the middle_ _of the kitchen_ and I’m hungry,” you snapped back, pleased by the flash of shock on his face. “You have a thousand other rooms in this house, you can’t go anywhere else?”

You’d come to regret that jab later, but the satisfaction of the way his forced smile faded down into an aggravated frown was too sweet to resist. As you turned back to the stove, you spotted James in the corner attempting to suppress a smile, though he quickly pushed it aside when Brock called his name.

“Karpov, please escort my wife somewhere she’ll be more comfortable. I’ll have Clara bring her dinner when it’s ready.”

James nodded, stern features replacing the softness of the smile and he stepped forward, gesturing for you to follow.

“You can’t be serious,” you gaped, glancing at James before you turned back to Brock.

You weren’t a child and you didn’t need to be treated as such, but with the look on Brock’s face, the redness burning in patches on his neck and the glare in his eyes as he stared you down, warning you to _shut your damn mouth_ , and you silenced immediately.

You’d seen that look before. It wasn’t one you enjoyed being on the receiving end of.

“Ma’am, please come with me,” James requested, voice low, soft, and he placed a hand on your arm to lead you away but you yanked it from his grasp harsher than you intended.

It wasn’t him you were angry with but he was just as much a part of Hydra’s world as your husband was. He chose this life. You were forced into it. It didn’t matter how sweet and gentle he was, or the fact that he seemed to care about your books or your wellbeing. He was still a man following orders.

Frustration was etching in your skin, leaving you feeling antsy and shaken, but you stood your ground. You met Brock’s eye from across the room, a challenge of wills between you.

“Don’t make me ask again,” Brock growled, slowly standing from his position.

It was then you felt another soft touch on the mid of your shoulder blades. Gentle, guiding, and entirely unlike the hands of his men before who had yanked you from the room with a firm grasp around your wrist that left red marks and aching. You turned to find James watching you carefully, offering a nod in encouragement, and you shivered away from his fingertips.

His hand fell immediately and he made no efforts to touch you again.

You glanced back at your husband, and then to Clara who had already starting preparing the soup with the ingredients you had taken out of the pantry. With a roll of your eyes, you turned on your heels and stormed out of the kitchen, leaving Brock with a satisfied, prideful smirk you’d come to loath.

“Keep an eye on her, Karpov,” Brock called out to James and you turned your shoulder to find him following you into the living room.

There was an apologetic look about him, with his hands stuffed into his pockets and his hair falling down into his face. He offered you a tight-lipped smile despite the hardened frown on your face, and it only seemed to add to the confusion he elicited in you.

“I don’t need a babysitter, just so you know,” you said, arms folded over your chest as you leaned against the back of the couch.

“Oh, I am fully aware,” James nodded, a slight chuckle escaping him. “Think you can do me a favor and let me stick around for a bit though? Just so I don’t piss off the boss?”

You laughed despite yourself. The tension quickly fading from your shoulders and your arms unfolded from your chest. Hands gripping at the suede fabric of the couch, you turned to see James smiling at you. It was bright, leaving dimples on his cheeks and wrinkles by his eyes. He was really quite beautiful if you stopped and let yourself think so, which you did not.

“I suppose I can be fine with that.“

A silence took over for a moment and he shifted in his stance. He didn’t care for the quiet, you noticed, watching the way his eyes glanced down to his watch and he started to tap his toe against the hardwood floors. It took you a few years, but you’d come to savor the silent moment likes these. They meant you were alone, out of Brock and Hydra’s reach. They were a blanket of warmth and safety.

James seemed to find them unsettling.

“I actually have something for you,” he said suddenly, a slight jolt in his body as the realization came back to him and he quickly made his way to a black backpack sitting in the corner of the living room.

You narrowed your eyes on him, wondering what your husband’s enforcer could possibly have in that bag. You watched as he dug around the inside and tried to steal a glance over his shoulder when he stood up abruptly with a sudden nervous energy about him.

He didn’t say anything as he extended his hand to you; in his grasp was a copy of _A Farewell to Arms_.

You swallowed, stilling immediately, as you stared at it for a moment, giving yourself just a moment to process exactly what this was before your eyes trailed up to his.

He was swaying on his feet and it surprised you to watch a man who had been hired by your husband, to have dozens of pounds of muscle on his frame, and standing at six feet tall to be so nervous. You carefully took the book from his hands, running your fingers along the print of the title before you flipped through the pages.

It was faded on the cover and the binding was near in pieces from over stretching and cracking down the middle with use, but it was still readable, even with the ring of coffee stained on the first page of chapter one. The back cover had a high school library sticker adhered to the page that looked like it had been picked at relentlessly, though it won out in the end.

Worn over the years of being passed from student to student until ultimately James took it home and kept it more than a decade ago. It was a relic. A memory. It was perfect in every way and suddenly there was a lump in your throat you couldn’t quite explain. It had been years since you’d known kindness like this inside this home.

You had Peter and Aunt May, but they were like treasured secrets; ones you kept at the furthest distance from Brock as you could. This – this book in your hands – was something else entirely. You couldn’t remember the last time Brock brought you something simply because it reminded him of you.

James managed to make your heart ache and your stomach twist all at once, and you’d only known him a few weeks. You were at a complete loss.

“I know it’s not a first edition but,” he stumbled nervously, scratching at the back of his neck, “it was one of the few classics I liked back in high school. It’s, uh, seen some things… clearly.”

He chuckled anxiously, gesturing to the worn-down binding, and after a moment of what seemed to be pure shock, you tugged the book to your chest, hugging it close to your heart. A smile lit up your face, sparkling like gold and glitter and magic in your eyes. It was like a rush of heat in your veins and breath of fresh air.

“Do you want to see the library?” you asked suddenly and he seemed surprised by that as he raised an eyebrow, taking a step back. Now it was your turn to shift nervously on your feet as you stole a glance back over to the kitchen. “You know, if you’re stuck with me for a little while?”

James smiled, the corners of his lips curving slowly into his cheeks, and he nodded.

You grinned, turning on your heels and allowing him to follow you. You kept the Hemingway classic close to your chest the entire walk and tried not to think of the implications of it or the fact that Brock never once took any interest in your books or that you’d only known James a few weeks and he already seemed to be more interested in your love of fiction than your husband ever was.

You pushed all those thoughts aside. At least, you tried to. James wasn’t making it exceptionally easy with the way he was stunned into near silence as you pushed open the heavy oak doors and led him inside your sanctuary.

“I know you said you saw it before, but–”

“Not like this,” he said with a heavy sigh, shaking his head in disbelief as he stepped inside.

You knew a forced smile when you saw it and the way James walked around the room, his hand trailing along the shelf and closely examining the titles and the intricate detailing in the woodwork, every ounce of the bewilderment on his face seemed to be entirely genuine. He paused at the end of the first row, chuckling to himself as he pulled out a novel you quickly realized was among your Bradbury collection.

 _Fahrenheit 451_. The book he asked you about the second time you ever spoke to him. There were smiles in between, careful glances and slight nods of acknowledgment in a way none of Brock’s men ever offered to you before, but the first time he talked to you, _really talked_ to you, without the presence of your husband, was the first time you’d laughed in that home in a long time.

“You can borrow it, if you like,” you offered, leaning against the shelf as you watched him flip open the pages, studying the near translucency of the paper and the sculpted gold framing of the font on the cover.

“Think I might be a bit too rough around the edges for something as delicate as this,” he replied and it made your stomach twist in knots with the way he laughed to himself. The feeling was so foreign to you, you almost didn’t recognize it. It had been years since anyone brought those kinds of butteries around.

“I don’t believe that’s true,” you shrugged, stepping closer. “There’s no use in having a library full of books you can’t read. It’s what they’re here for.”

“Not sure that applies to ones worth thousands of dollars,” he mumbled awkwardly, though he couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from the first page, like he had already started reading. His eyes were scanning the page, a slight curve of his lips as he read, and you swore your heart fluttered, but you shoved the feeling deep down because it wasn’t one you were allowed to have.

“It does, actually,” you countered and he looked up from the page to find you standing just a few feet away.

He sighed, clearly reluctant. His eyes trailed from the pages to your face, and back to the pages again. “Only if you’re sure.”

“I insist.”

You smiled at him and he closed the book, letting his hand fall to the side with the novel pressed to his hip. He nodded in appreciation.

“Guess it’s the least you could do now that I’ve gifted you such a relic,” he grinned, nodding to the novel in your hands nearly torn at the seams, with pages bending in the corners from unwanted moisture and cracks in the cover.

“Hey!” you laughed, swatting his arm playfully, “don’t knock my new favorite book.”

“Favorite, huh?”

Your cheeks hurt. Blushing and heart pounding. It was suddenly five years earlier and you weren’t tied down by rope and duty and bound to a home and husband you wanted nothing to do with. It felt like, for a short impossible moment, that maybe you could start again, maybe want something for yourself.

But James was just as much a part of Hydra as Brock was; maybe even more so because it was _his_ hands carrying out orders. It didn’t matter that the soft hue of bright blue eyes and the sweetness in his smile seemed to contradict everything you knew about him. He was still Hydra.

Realizing you had been staring too long, standing too close, you quickly cleared your throat, stepping back and James let out a heavy sigh, looking just about everywhere around the room but at you.

A sudden knock at the door made you flinch, hand darting to your heart to hold you steady.

“Miss Y/n?” a voice called. Clara. You could smell the homemade soup from across the room.

“Just a moment,” you called back.

You were hidden behind an aisle of books, shielded by the abundance of thick covers and pages, hiding this stolen moment – _or whatever it was._ You glanced back at James nervously, a silent apology in your eyes and he seemed to understand immediately. It was time for him to leave.

He offered you a short smile, holding up the Bradbury novel in his hand with a slight nod of appreciation, before he quietly slipped from the library. Clara eyed him as he left, keeping a careful distance as she usually did when Brock’s employees were around. When you emerged from behind the row of shelves, she had already set up your tray on the coffee table, folding the napkin into a beautiful design.

“That one’s new around here, isn’t he?” she asked, referring to James, a slight tremor in her voice that came with age. She smiled at you, saying more between the lines, but you knew what she meant.

James didn’t seem to be anything like the other men Rumlow kept company with. He was kind, with bright eyes and a warm smile. He cared about your library and your novels without forcing his way through a conversation for the sake of politeness.

He brought you a book, one from his own home, one he kept since his school days and must have dug through old boxes for, simply because he thought it might make you smile.

He was genuine. It had been a long time since you’d known anything like that within the walls of this home.

And it terrified you.


	4. Three

“You did _what_ now?”

Bucky rolled his eyes, explicitly ignoring Sam’s full-bellied laugh as he struggled not to spill the open lidded coffee cup on the impossibly small table between them. There were near tears in his eyes and patrons of the Brooklyn based café were all staring in their direction. Bucky tugged the bridge of his baseball cap lower over his eyes.

“Leave him alone, Sam. It was a good idea,” Steve warned, voice low, as he turned to Bucky to clap a hand on his shoulder. He gripped at the muscle, massaging the tender scar tissue, before dropping his grip. “It gave him an in with Y/n. He needs to work on building that foundation of trust before he can start figuring out what she knows about Hydra. Ain’t that right, Buck?”

Bucky nodded, his lips pressing to a thin line, though it felt forced, jarring against his features. 

“Yeah.”

He could still picture the shock in your eyes; the surprise and the realization as he placed the book in your hands. He had thought for a minute that you were going to laugh at him and discard the old, worn down copy he’d stolen from his high school library as a sophomore because it in no way compared to the first edition novels worth thousands of dollars sitting upon your shelves, but the smile that lifted your lips had made his heart feel like it was going to burst out of his chest.

Sure, maybe there was a part of him that knew that your library and your clear love of fiction would be an easy target to begin building a connection, a layer of trust, before he could start getting the information from you he needed, but it wasn’t why he’d spent two hours tearing apart his childhood bedroom in search of the book.

He wanted to see you smile again.

He wanted to see your eyes light up and the way you bite on the corner of your lip. There was just something about it that made his stomach twist in knots, that made his own mouth start to curve at the edges, and his heart beat just a little quicker. It was so rare to see it from you, especially in the days your husband lingered around, but suddenly, it was all he could think about.

He could have asked for the funds from the Bureau to buy you the first edition, writing it off as a necessary expense for his cover, but somehow, he knew you’d appreciate the hand-me-down copy more. It had character and a history. It was messy, and a little broken; a glimpse into his life, his _real life,_ something he was never supposed to cross the boundaries of, but it served its purpose.

He’d seen you around the house carrying it under your arm for nearly four days after he’d given it to you. Sometimes he’d spot you sitting in the living room, nose deep in the pages as he walked in the front door behind Rumlow before you’d get up and quickly escape to your library without a word to your husband, though you stopped and caught his eye before you left, holding up the book so he knew you were reading it and giving him that short, stolen smile before you disappeared.

You had run into him on the fifth day and swatted him with the book in a rare moment when he was standing by himself in the kitchen, Rumlow having gone up to the office to gather some paperwork before they were meant to head to the Lernaean.

“What did this poor book ever do to you?” you had teased him, flipping open the pages of his copy of _A Farewell to Arms_ to find stains of Dorito dust in the folds on page 76, mindless doodles done in blue ink pen on the top corner of page 117, and a sticky note taped to the inside back cover of a crude drawing of a lanky, high school version of Steve with big angry eyebrows and a boxing gloves held up by his face.

“Sorry, I guess I should have looked it over before I lent it to you.” Bucky laughed, swiping the book back from your hands and earning a pout in return. “I mean if you don’t want to finish it, I’ll just take it b–”

“I never said I was done with it, you vandal!”

Your laugh was like music to his ears, melodic and captivating, and he hated the moments you cut it off short and closed it away to the darkest parts of yourself; moments like when your husband walked back into the room.

Rumlow had eyed you with a kind of look you must have been familiar with because your smile fell away instantly and Bucky released the book to your grasp. You held it down by your hips, eyes glued to the floor. He had watched as you left the room without another word, book gripped so tightly in your hands, the pages started to crinkle.

He knew what he was feeling was dangerous. It went against every code he swore an oath to. He’d be pulled from the case the second Director Fury got wind of his personal attachment to you – _if that’s what he was going to call it_. There wasn’t really a way to describe what he was feeling.

Infatuation. Admiration. Longing. Ease. Attraction.

He didn’t know.

All he knew was that he wanted to see you smile more, wanted to knock Rumlow’s teeth in for more reasons than why he was stationed undercover within Hydra in the first place. He wanted to know why you were involved in this world to begin with and how you ended up trapped in a marriage you clearly wanted nothing to do with.

He wanted to protect you from all this; from Hydra, from his investigation.

A few conversations, a couple smiles from across the rooms, and it changed everything.

“Buck? You awake in there?” Sam chuckled, tapping a finger on Bucky’s forehead until he swatted his hand away with a grunt.

“Knock it off, Wilson,” Bucky grumbled, bending down to take a sip of the burning hot coffee resting in his grasp. It stung on his lips but he swallowed it back anyway, the heat of it warming down through his chest.

“It’s been almost two months,” Steve said casually, “how have you been holding up?”

Bucky glanced around at the busy café. It wasn’t unusual for them to meet in public places and talk about the case, as long as they kept details vague and didn’t draw any attention. Hell, Bucky just needed an outlet sometimes outside of the conference rooms and safe houses he usually met the team in. He was thankful Nat typically elected out of their Sunday coffee runs because she was always able to read him like a hawk, and he was certain she’d be able to pick up on his affection towards you in an instant.

“It’s fine,” Bucky shrugged. “Boss is still a piece of shit.”

“Yeah, well, we already knew that,” Sam agreed, pursing his lips with a shake of his head.

“You said there were some guys there who seemed to be blackmailed into their work?” Steve asked, voice a little quieter now.

Bucky nodded. “Seems that way. Not everyone is there by choice. Still working out the details of who but I’ve got a list going for Nat when we meet up next week. I’m supposed to be stationed out on the docks this week so I’ll talk to the guys then.”

“Good, good,” Steve said. He paused for a moment, staring down into his coffee, studying the swirl of the soft chestnut coloring. “You being careful?”

Bucky smiled at that. For a kid who spent his youth getting himself into trouble and leaving Bucky to watch over his back, he sure as hell got protective himself once his body grew into his rebellious and reckless attitude.

“Yeah, pal, you know I always am.”

“Something just feels different about this one,” Steve said, leaning back into his chair. A woman behind the counter was staring at him, and he cleared his throat awkwardly upon noticing her eyes, shrugging the collar of his jacket up to cover the pink blush in his cheeks.

“Well this is the biggest profile case we’ve tackled,” Sam offered casually as he took a sip of his coffee, grinning at the way the girl at the counter shamelessly ogled at Steve.

“I don’t like that he’s in there so deep with no one to watch his six,” Steve shook his head, teeth gritted.

“I’m not alone and you know it,” Bucky responded, reaching across the table to grab a firm hold of Steve’s forearm, squeezing just enough to get him to meet his eye. There was hesitancy there and Steve wasn’t usually one to worry. “I’ve got you guys, remember?”

“You just need to watch yourself, alright?” Steve exhaled, patting at Bucky’s hand until he released his arm. “This is the first time you’ve been put in so close to the target. You spent most of your time in _his house_ , Buck, and with Fury tellin’ you to get close to the wife, I just… I worry there’s too much on your shoulders and somethings going to fall through the cracks.”

Bucky sighed, exchanging a quick look with Sam who’s teasing smile had faded away upon noticing the genuine concern and anxiety in their friend.

“Nothing’s gonna happen to him, Steve,” Sam said, sending a wink at Bucky before he added, “you know he’d never let us hear the end of it.”

Bucky laughed, nodding. “Damn straight.”

Sam punched at Steve’s shoulder, grinning again, and didn’t let up until Steve finally relaxed and sat up further in his chair, the tension clearly washing from his muscles.

“Now that _that’s_ all settled,” Sam teased, clapping Steve on the shoulder, “how about we focus on getting you the pretty barista’s number?”

***

Sundays used to be your only good days.

You used to find solace in warm teas and coffees from Café Ramos and freshly baked bagels from the Marselli’s; freedom in the wind gusting through the open back streets of Queens. Far away from tourists and amongst the bodegas and apartment buildings, you walked dozens of blocks from where your driver dropped you off; an added precaution to keep Brock from tracking down where you spent your time, and whoyou met up with.

Peter was sitting on the stoop of the brownstone, cheek resting on his hand and slouching up his face as he stared down at his phone. There was a lovesick look in his eye and you wondered if he ever got around to asking that girl out from school he’d been crushing on.

He was a sweet kid. Kind. Compassionate. Intelligent beyond belief. But his optimism and habit of overlooking flaws to see the best in someone, while admirable, was dangerous. It was why you worked so hard to keep him away from Brock. Your husband had a talent of convincing kids like that with an eagerness to please and a family tight on cash to join his ranks.

Peter was like a brother to you, having grown up with him running around your father’s house at all hours of the day when Aunt May was working, but lately, you kept him at an arm’s length. You never let him over at the house, kept details vague about Brock’s employment, and insisted on walking the fourteen blocks to his apartment to pick him up, even when he offered to meet you at the subway stop near where your driver dropped you off.

He was a sweet kid, but he was naïve. Young. He had some learning to do. It was what you liked so much about him. You could use a little unending joy and positivity in your life.

“Hey Aunt May!” you called, waving at her as she walked by the front window folding a shirt from the dryer. She paused, turning towards you with a big smile and made her way to the door.

Peter had nearly fallen over on himself, clutching at his chest, his phone on the ground where it flung from his hands upon your sudden arrival.

“You okay there, kid?” you laughed, bending down to pick up his phone. No cracks. You handed it back to him with a wink.

He chuckled nervously, brushing off the screen with the edge of his shirt. “You scared me.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t be so nose deep in your phone, Z.”

“Yeah, okay, Mil.”

“Z? Mil? You two develop another coded language or am I losing it?” Aunt May folded her arms over her chest as she leaned against the frame of the door.

“Gen Z,” Peter explained, pointing to himself, and then to you, “Millennial.”

You and Peter had some years between one another and, sure, you didn’t always understand the other’s lingo or quirks in their behavior, but it didn’t make much difference to either of you. It was another reason to poke fun at each other. Siblings were like that.

“I still think it’s funny you spend as much time together as you do,” Aunt May smiled.

“Hey, I keep him out of trouble!”

“– and I keep her young.”

“Okay, watch yourself, kid,” you warned, laughing as you poked him hard in the side, causing him to jump away a few feet to escape another attack.

Aunt May always did like you being around so much after Uncle Ben died. Peter didn’t take it so well, not after losing his parents too, so he spent hours every day at your house when Aunt May was on shift at the hospital. You’d occupy his time and keep his mind from wondering back to finding his uncle in the streets, alone and bleeding. He was so young when it happened, you were surprised that when your father died just a few years later, he had insisted on doing the same for you.

The years between you didn’t matter. Not when it came to a bond like that.

“Will you come say hi already?” Aunt May teased, stomping her foot playfully as she opened her arms to you and you rushed up the stoop to fall into her embrace. She smelled of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies and you peaked around the corner to find trays lined up on the kitchen table. Your stomach growled.

“Do I smell–”

“You want some before we go?” Peter asked before shoving his way inside, not quite bothering to wait for an answer as he started grabbing a few cookies from the table, bouncing a particularly hot one between his hands before he shoved it in his mouth.

He grabbed two for you, slipping them into your outstretched hand as you stepped out of Aunt May’s hold. She smiled at you, brushing your hair from your eyes in that motherly way you’d missed since you were a kid. You supposed it was another thing that drew you and Peter together.

“Don’t think I forgot about that science project you have due this week!” Aunt May called as you and Peter started to walk to the sidewalk. He visibly winced. “I want you home before dinner, Peter.”

“Okay, okay!” he groaned, shooing her off with a wave of his hand and sent you a glare as you struggled to contain your laughter.

“Oh, man. I do _not_ miss high school,” you grinned, taking a bite of the cookie and nearly choking on a moan that slipped out. Buttery soft and warm gooiness melting on your tongue. Heaven.

Peter rolled his eyes, nudging you with his elbow playfully. “Don’t rub it in.”

***

Your Sundays were never exceeding exciting. Most of your time spent with Peter was just running errands, taking deposits to the bank for Aunt May, picking up lunch at one of the sandwich shops, getting him a new pair of sneakers he so desperately needed even though he fought you on paying for them for about an hour before he gave in.

They were often mundane and filled with idle chatter, sitting on park benches and watching the people walk by and the tourists taking photos in front of brick walls. He’d sit there and talk for hours because that’s amongst the things Peter did best. He’d tell you everything from his latest science fair project, the progress on his Lego set with Ned, the kid named ‘Flash’ who pranked him again and filled his locker with whipped cream.

It was simple. It was easy and comforting.

It was an escape.

Peter had nearly forgotten he was supposed to pick up a few things from the corner store for Aunt May, so you were on your way to the shop with the black cat who liked to sit perched in the window just to get a good look at her again while he tracked down the milk and bread.

The wind was picking up and you tugged your jacket tighter around your chest. You glanced over at Peter who had his hands shoved into the thin layer of his jacket, cheeks a little pink from the wind and he shivered. 

Your heart ached a little and you decided you’d talk him into a new coat on your next Sunday together. He’d never make it through New York winter with holes in his pockets and no protection from the blistering wind.

While Brock didn’t give you access to enough of your father’s money to make it on your own, you had enough to buy things for Peter, to collect your first editions, and to remain moderately comfortable.

It was a ploy to keep you content, a carrot to dangle for the arguments when you’d threaten to storm out of the house you shared and he’d remind you, you had nothing without him, that he could implicate you in each and every one of his crimes, and you’d stay. Every time. You’d stay.

You had no choice.

And for years, you’d grown accustomed to the prison your home had turned into. Until you met James Karpov.

You’d almost forgotten what it was like to feel the twist of nerves in your stomach, to seek someone out amongst a crowd and to feel the relief deep in your bones upon finding them, upon finding blue eyes and dark brown hair, warm smile and that slight nod. So impossibly subtle and somehow it became the best part of your day.

Maybe you were naïve, and maybe it had simply been too long since anyone within that home had treated you with even an ounce of kindness or respect that you clung onto the first man who so much as smiled in your direction and asked about one of your overpriced books, but it gave you back a sense of yourself you’d been missing.

You started smiling again, starting looking forward to the days Brock held his meetings within the house in hopes that James would be there and you could ask him how far along he’d gotten in _Fahrenheit 451._ You were careful about your interactions with him, knowing that Brock was an exceptionally jealous man, even if your conversations with James were innocent.

And they were.

They had no greater meaning or underlying feelings.

So you told yourself, anyway.

The wind was picking up again and Peter was finishing up a very long and overly detailed recount of he and Ned’s favorite comic book series, when you realized you’d walked nearly five blocks without realizing it.

“Did you give Michele the necklace yet?” you asked him as you crossed the border into Brooklyn. He nearly choked on air, coughing to alleviate his surprise and you laughed into your scarf, trying to hold it back for the sake of his ego.

“Oh, um, not yet! But I’m working on it,” he chuckled nervously. “I’ve got a plan.”

Peter was starting to tell you all of the intricate and perfectly timed details of this ‘plan’ when you spotted someone across the street that caught your eye.

Tall, with long brown hair swept behind his ears and hiding under a baseball cap, hands tucked into the pockets of a familiar bomber, he swatted the arm of a friend on his left while the other scolded him.

You narrowed your eyes, not even realizing you’d pulled to a stop until Peter came rushing back a few paces, complaining he’d kept on walking without you. You apologized quickly, a little out of focus, and asked him for a minute. He nodded with a shrug and pulled out his phone, sinking down to the sidewalk and waited patiently.

“James?” you called over the rush of traffic. He didn’t seem to hear you.

You’d never seen him outside of your husband’s home and it was strange running into him in such a personal environment. He was with friends, off the job, his guard was down. A bright smile, brighter than you’d ever seen it on his face as he laughed loud enough for the sound to carry across the street. It made something in your chest clench.

You called his name again, a little louder this time, but the blare of a horn drowned you out.

Letting out a heavy sigh, you held up a hand to warn oncoming cars that you were crossing the street and quickly wove your way in and out of lanes until you made it to the other side of the road. You glanced in his direction, brushing out the dirt on the thighs of your jeans before you approached him again.

“James!”

You were only standing a few feet from him and he still didn’t respond. You closed your eyes, gritting your teeth and feeling a rush of embarrassment.

This was his day off; he didn’t need to be dealing with his boss’s wife.

All this time, while you were caught up in your own head with fantasies of ‘what if’s’ and finding solace in his short, kind smiles, he was probably just appeasing the wife of his boss. He must have known how lonely you were, could sense it a mile away, and he was simply being polite. You just misinterpreted it for interest or kindness or _something,_ but it was clear your stolen moments over classic fiction and subtle glances across the room were exclusive to the walls of your home.

You turned to leave, clenching your hands into fists and puncturing the skin, when you heard your name called from behind you.

“Y/n?”

You spun around to find James staring at you with wide blue eyes. He was clearly surprised, caught off guard in a way few men of his rank within Hydra ever were, and he glanced back at his friends hesitantly before they quickly departed, retreating to a table on the edge of the café they had left from. He walked closer to you, enough so neither of you would have to shout over the rush of traffic.

“Sorry, I wasn’t expecting to see you,” James said, that smile tugging on the corner of his lips as he everted his eyes. He was nervous, swaying in his stance and running a hand through his hair.

“No, it’s okay!” you replied quickly. “I didn’t mean to interrupt anything with your friends.”

He clenched his jaw at that, the smile fading from his face. “Friends? What friends?”

You peered around his towering shoulders to find the two men he was just standing with sitting over at a table at the café, talking to one another and stealing glances in your direction over the tops of newspapers they had just nabbed from the adjacent table. It was endearing, if anything.

“So, the guys siting over at that table pretending not to watch our every move _aren’t_ your friends?” you asked, a slight laugh in your voice as James shook his head.

“No,” he responded shortly, though when you narrowed your eyes on him, grinning, he sighed, “yeah, ok. I know ‘em.”

You pursed your lips, glancing between James and two men sitting over at the table; the dark-skinned man with the toothy grin seemed to be thrilled to watch James fumble his way through half of a conversation, while the tall blonde one punched at his friend’s shoulder, seemingly warning him quietly to knock it off.

You sighed, noticing the way he kept glancing back at his friends, shuffling his feet like he wanted to be just about anywhere else than this conversation. You tried to ignore the free-falling feeling in your stomach.

“Look,” you started, feeling a little uneasy in your stance now, “it’s totally okay you don’t want me to know about them. I get it. You want to keep your personal life separate from work. It makes a lot of sense, especially with, um, with what you do and, um, I’m part of work, right? Different worlds. Don’t need to be bothering yourself with the boss’s wife in your free time…”

His whole body seemed to freeze and his eyes went wide.

“What? No, that’s not it at all!” he quickly explained, but he seemed to relax for a moment, glancing back towards his friends. “They don’t know what I do outside of the cover at the club. I just don’t want them catching wind.”

You nodded, knowing full well how that felt. A wave of relief swept through you; like a rush of water pushing away the aches and twists and breaks in your chest, leaving behind only that pleasant little tug you felt every time he walked in the room.

“You must be the new guy!” a voice chimed from behind you and you nearly flinched from the shock of it.

Speak of the damn devil.

Peter was suddenly at your side, a little out of breath as he looked James over, wide eyed and grinning. “Holy cow. He really is all muscle, huh?”

You shoved Peter hard in the side, cheeks flushing with heat as James laughed a little under his breath.

“I thought you were gonna stay on the other side of the street until I was done?”

“Got bored,” he shrugged, pushing you aside and turning to James. “So! What’s the likelihood you’ll let me sneak into the Lernaean? I’ve got an in with the owner and Y/n never lets me get anywhere near that place. Tell me you’re cooler than my cousin, man, I’m beggin’ you.”

You must have stopped breathing because your lungs felt like they were on fire. Peter had never been so brazen as to bypass your carefully constructed boundaries like that, but then again, he’d never met anyone from Hydra before. It was your mistake to confide in him about the strange new ‘bouncer’ with the blue eyes and the unexpected appreciation of fiction. Peter was curious by nature and he just liked seeing you happy.

James must have sensed your distress because he raised a brow at you, but your jaw was wired shut. Peter couldn’t know about this world. You had to keep him out of it. You tried to convey that to James with a simple glance, but he didn’t owe you anything. What would he care if this lanky kid knew about Hydra and the world you lived in? He was still Hydra himself and you had to constantly remind yourself of that.

“Please, man,” Peter begged. “It’ll make Flash so jealous and I need a win over that jerk.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, kid,” James replied. Peter let out a very dramatic groan and it got James laughing. “It’s not a good place for a minor to be hanging out, anyway. Listen to your cousin.”

The fear didn’t escape you, even as Peter seemed to let the topic go. You liked James, that much you were able to admit to yourself, but did you trust him enough to protect Peter from Brock’s world… you weren’t sure.

Trust wasn’t so much a step as it was a cascading waterfall into an abyss. It didn’t come easy to you.

“Fine. But I’m not giving up that easily,” Peter huffed, folding his arms over his chest. He caught sight of the watch on his wrist and pouted. He turned to you. “I should head home anyway.”

You nodded. “Okay, I’ll walk yo–”

“No, you won’t,” Peter argued with a massive smile. “I know you still have stuff to do before you head home. I’m fine on my own, you know that.”

You did. Didn’t mean you liked it.

“Besides,” Peter continued, that cheeky grin tugging on his face, “I’m sure Mr. Karpov here wouldn’t mind escorting you the rest of the way.”

Your throat ran dry. “T-That’s entirely unnecessary… _Peter_.”

You sent him a glare but it only made him laugh harder as he started to back away down the sidewalk. He winked and quickly turned his shoulder and jogged down the remainder of the block just to deprive you of the chance to argue back. The little shit.

Spinning back around to James with an anxious grimace on your face, you quickly held your hands up to apologize but he was laughing to himself, causing you to lose your train of thought.

“I really don’t mind, you know,” he said, and of course he didn’t, because he simply couldn’t make it easy to disregard that nervous feeling in your stomach when he looked at you.

“It’s super boring,” you warned and he shook his head with a smile, some stray pieces of hair falling into his face. Damn that smile of his.

“What are we doing?” he asked, like it wasn’t even a second thought.

“There’s a café a few blocks from here,” you started, carefully watching his face for signs that he was surely making fun of you or appeasing you to be polite, but came up empty. “They sell paintings by local artists and I’ve been wanting to replace this godawful modern abstract Brock’s interior designer hung in one of the spare rooms. He wouldn’t notice anyway, don’t you think?”

James shrugged, a nodding slightly as he chuckled. “I don’t suppose he would.”

You chewed on the edge of your lip, gesturing for him to follow you down the street and he did so without hesitation.

There were only a few minutes of silence, of walking side by side with hands tucked carefully into jacket pockets and side stepping pedestrians with their noses stuck in their phones, before you worked up the courage to say something.

“Peter doesn’t know about our world,” you said suddenly, keeping your eyes trained ahead of you, scared that if you even looked at him, you’d lose your nerve. “I work really hard to keep it that way, so if you could– if you could avoid mentioning to Brock that I was with him today, I would – I would really appreciate that. You know how Brock can be; always trying to recruit kids on the street to push his product and I don’t– I don’t want Peter anywhere near–”

“You have my word,” James said simply, genuinely, and you let out a heavy exhale that released like flood gates. “No reason to tell the boss what I do on my days off and who I run into, right?”

You nodded, a little lost for words. “Right.”

You paused at a stop light, stealing glances at him as he mumbled a soft apology to the elderly woman who was attempting to push past him to get to the front of the sidewalk. She was uneasy on her feet and using her walking cane as weapon as she clicked it against his ankles and he quickly stepped out of her way. He winced, rubbing at his right ankle with the back of his left shoe.

As the light turned green and the old lady pushed past, shoving a few other pedestrians out of her way, you turned back to James, grinning so wide it hurt in your cheeks. He was chewing on his lip.

“This could really damage my rep, huh?”

“Just a little,” you laughed and you were certain if your hands weren’t shoved deep into the pockets of your jacket to hide from the cold, you may have offered your hand to him. Just instinctively. His hands were so big, they seemed warm, safe.

“I finished _451_ , by the way,” he said as the two of you rushed to cross the street before the light turned again.

“What’d you think?”

“Never as good as the first time,” he shrugged but there was still a semblance of that smile on his lips. “Still pretty great though. Didn’t even spill coffee on it or anything.”

“I suppose I should be impressed, considering the way you treated Hemingway,” you laughed, shoving at his arm with your elbow, and though a hit like that would have had Peter stumbling a few paces, James barely even flinched, but he did start to laugh.

“Come on now, you know I was in high school when I last touched that thing and you can’t trust a teenage boy with shit,” he teased and you found yourself grabbing onto his arm for support from that laughs making your unsteady on your feet. He didn’t seem to mind at all, not even as you suddenly realized what you were doing and quickly released him with a quick nervous brush of your hair from your eyes.

You cleared your throat, continuing to walk down the sidewalk. “I finished it last week, actually. I can return it to you tomorrow if you–”

“It was a gift,” James said simply. “Keep it. If you want, I mean. I know it doesn’t exactly fit in amongst all the first editions and fancy copies so you can get rid of it if you–”

“No! It’s, uh, it’s perfect. Thank you,” you said and he pressed his lips together to keep himself from rambling.

He was right. It certainly did stand out amongst the novels on your shelves with the cracked and broken binding, the doodles in the pages, and the stains on the cover, but it was so entirely human. It was a relief to have something of imperfection amongst masterpieces.

***

Bucky wasn’t quite sure what to make of you.

It was the most relaxed he’d ever felt on an assignment as he walked alongside you down the busy streets of Brooklyn. You tried to lead him down less crowded alleys and avoid the cross-section of tourists taking photos in the street because you noticed the way he tugged at the bridge of his cap to pull over his eyes but it was near impossible. You must have mistaken his attempts at concealing his identity in a part of the city that knew him well for anxiety around the bustle of people.

It was sweet, he thought, that you were observant enough for things like that and tried to make it easier on him without saying a word. You’d give him silly excuses to travel down abandoned streets and act like it was you that wanted the space away from the crowd, but he knew you were doing it for him.

You told him about the café you liked to visit with the family you’d grown to know well over the years and the bagel joint a few blocks away that Bucky spent many years grabbing breakfast at as a teenager. You talked like you knew the owners, spent time with them and caught up on their weeks when you waited for your orders, and somehow that didn’t surprise Bucky at all.

He felt an ease by your side he’d never felt in all his years in undercover work. He was used to be on edge, to watching his every move and purposefully concealing parts of himself to create firm boundaries between his cover and himself.

But not with you.

The rare moments he spent alone with you were the only times he felt like Bucky Barnes, even under the guise of James Karpov.

But he still had a job to do.

You were smiling, telling him about a pain-in-your-ass student from your time teaching at Columbia and he could tell how much you missed it. There was a brightness in your eye, a flicker of nostalgia, of loss, and he hunched his shoulders against the cold with a steady breath.

“Why’d you quit?” he asked when you’d finished your story. Your smile fell away quickly and he nearly regretted asking. He cleared his throat awkwardly. “I mean, it sounds like you really loved what you did. With all the books you collect and all, figured you’d quite enjoy an outlet with people who are as obsessed with fiction as you are.”

That got a slight laugh out of you, but it was tense. Your eyes were on the sidewalk, jaw clenched.

“Oh, I… um…” you were struggling to come up with an answer, one to bullshit to him. You weren’t ready to trust him and he should have known better than to ask so soon. “I stepped down when I got married. Brock has more than enough money. I don’t need to work anymore.”

“Doesn’t mean you don’t want to,” Bucky offered because part of him simply just wanted you to know that not every man would isolate you from the things you loved and demand you give your entire life to him. The other part, the one screaming in the back of his head, knew that validating you like this, giving you the support you so clearly craved, would only build on that trust; trust he would need to use you as an accessory to bring Hydra to ash.

He hated that part of him. He never used to.

You nodded, chewing on your lip. “Doesn’t mean I can.”

He changed the subject quickly after that.

He knew well enough that it wasn’t a good sign that he was putting your feelings over his commitment to the job. On any other assignment with any other target, he would have pressed harder, would have asked how you met Rumlow and why you married him at all if this was the life you’d end up in, but he bit his tongue.

You were talking about a local kid’s high school musical you wanted to attend and suddenly you were smiling again. The tension left Bucky’s chest and he felt at ease, pushing aside the nagging voicing in the back of his head, reminding him why he was stationed next to you in the first place.

It seemed to quiet down the longer he walked with you, the more he stole glances at your smile, the more his stomach seemed to twist to pleasant knots whenever you look at him.

***

“What do you think of this one?” you asked, pulling his attention back to the painting hanging above two teenage girls huddled around a single laptop, sharing a pair of headphones as they struggled to contain their laughter.

The painting you were looking at was filled with reds and oranges, yellows and dark blue, soft brush strokes in gentle waves across the frame; it looked like a sunset, warm and comforting. It was in stark contrast to the cold and isolating nature of the house and he supposed it was why you liked it.

“It’s nice,” he said. He wasn’t as attuned to the arts as you were, but he knew it was nicer than the one you were trying to replace. It was one that made you smile. That was enough, he thought.

“Think Brock will be mad if he finds out I’m replacing a $50,000 painting with one done by…” you squinted your eyes, leaning in closer to read the tag, “a lovely young art major named Wanda at NYU?”

“Not if he never notices it.” He winked, nudging your arm.

You smiled, the lines of it wrinkling up by your eyes and Bucky had a hard time tearing his gaze away from you as you politely waved over the owner and pointed to the painting on the wall. 

Bucky leaned against the counter, watching from a distance as you conversed with the owner for a few minutes, and after a while, he gasped, staring at you with wide eyes. You must have told him how much you were willing to pay for the piece.

Steve and Sam were going to rip him a new one at the next meet up, he was sure of it. There was no way they didn’t catch on to how easily he retreated back to Bucky Barnes, highly capable FBI special agent and nervous wreck amongst pretty women, from James Karpov, enforcer to the world’s deadliest mafia.

You turned back to him, raising a thumbs up with the biggest smile on your face he’d ever seen as the owner moved to take down the painting. You were practically giddy with joy and he found himself smiling until his cheeks hurt, even long after you turned away to start writing the check.

He was such a goner.


	5. Four

Six months.

Six months of _‘yes, sir’_ and _‘no, sir’,_ of holding back his tongue and clenching his hands into fists, of putting on the best acting performance of his life every time he was forced to stand in the same room as Brock Rumlow and didn’t tear the man’s goddamn jugular out. 

Sure, maybe some of that resentment was rooted in more than his status as the head of Hydra and the orders he’d personally given for the execution of men and the pushing of drugs onto the streets, but deep down, where Bucky knew better than to look, he knew his anger towards Rumlow had more to do with his treatment of you than anything else. 

He started spending most of his Sundays at your side. He’d meet with Steve and Sam at the café, old friends just catching up as far as you were concerned, and he’d run into you down by the bridge where you’d usually end up with Peter. 

The first time had truly been an accident, but then Sam suggested he use it to his advantage. 

The second time, he orchestrated quite literally running into you and Peter on his afternoon jog. He was dripping in sweat because Sam insisted it had to be believable and made him run an extra two miles just to be an asshole about it. 

He spotted you from down the block, walking alongside your cousin Peter and laughing so hard you had to grip onto the kid’s shoulder for support. Bucky fought he urge to smile as he kept his head down, hair falling into his face the closer he approached before he nearly sent you spiraling to the ground when his shoulder collided into yours. 

The cup in your hand slipped from your fingers and suddenly the sweet smell of apple and caramel filtered through the cold breeze as your tea spilled down onto the concrete. 

Bucky’s hands reached out and gripped to your arms to keep you from falling over completely and Peter was about ready to throw some hands himself at the thoughtless idiot who dared to knock you off your feet, but as you shook the hair from your eyes, looking up to him and realizing exactly who was holding onto you, you started to laugh. 

“James!” you grinned, clearly surprised and lips brimming with that smile that left crinkles up by your eyes. 

Bucky stepped back and let you brush out the wrinkles he left in your jacket, eyeing Peter as he folded his arms and observed from a careful distance, a smirk on his face. 

You exhaled a breath, shaking your head. “What are—What are you doing in Brooklyn again?”

“Well, I live here for one. You’re treading on my territory now,” Bucky teased, sending a wink to Peter who he knew lived in Queens from your brief encounter the previous week. Peter’s smile fell and he narrowing his eyes, sending Bucky a mostly playful glare. The rivalry ran deep. 

“You live here?” you repeated, surprised, and Bucky decided he really enjoyed the way your lips parted ever so slightly, your eyes boring into his, and the rapid blinking of your lashes. 

“Did you think I just slept in a car down the block from your place?” Bucky smirked, nudging your arm and earning a light hearted scoff in return. “I do spend a lot of time there. It wouldn’t be an unreasonable thought.”

“Sometimes it’s easy to forget you have a life outside of Hyd–” you froze, swallowing down your words as you glanced over to Peter. He didn’t seem to notice your slip because his nose was in his phone, grinning at a recent text message as he typed furiously away at the screen. 

“Outside of _the club_ ,” you corrected yourself. Bucky nodded in understanding. 

“Wasn’t always a ‘bouncer’, you know,” Bucky said lightly and your expression quickly softened.

“Really? What did you do before?” 

“Let me replace that tea I just spilled all over the sidewalk and maybe I’ll tell you,” he proposed, letting himself fall back into the charming, flirty routine he’d learned to convey exceptionally well in his years undercover. Though, for some reason now, it didn’t feel like a charade.

“That’s my cue to leave,” Peter smirked, pointing a thumb back in the direction of Queens. You raised an eyebrow at him as he started to back away. “I’ve got… uh… homework to do.”

“Homework?” you scoffed and Peter nodded enthusiastically, eyes flickering between you and Bucky. “Peter, you’re a notorious procrastinator.”

“Maybe I’ve had a change of heart, huh?” he shrugged, feigning offense. “Better get going then. Have fun!”

Your jaw was clenched tightly as Peter sprinted down the sidewalk, leaving you alone with Bucky. Lips pursed, arms crossed over your chest, a shake in your head; you were exceptionally adorable. 

“You don’t have to, you know,” Bucky offered with a slight chuckle. He shouldn’t be giving you an out like that and he was certain Sam would have given him a few choice words in his ear if he’d been mic’d, but he couldn’t help it. He wanted you to _want to_ spend time with him, not because he’d set up the perfect circumstances to convince you. 

“I know,” you said as you turned back to him with a softened smile. 

There was something different in your eyes, a flicker of something like appreciation and he wondered when the last time Brock gave you a choice with something like that. 

He pushed the thought away as quickly as it came. 

***

On the third Sunday, Bucky had been walking out of a bodega with a sub in hand, given the cue to step away from the door and into the sidewalk at the exact right time from Steve who was sitting with a baseball cap and sunglasses at a coffee joint across the street. 

You were mid conversation and Peter spotted him before you did, a wild grin growing on his face as he nudged you hard in the side and pointed over to Bucky as he started opening his sub, acting oblivious to your proximity. 

“James?” you called, laughing, with your arms outstretched to the side in question, in disbelief. “You following me or something?”

“You’re in my part of town, Y/n,” Bucky reminded you with a teasing grin. “You sure _you’re_ not following _me_?”

It went on for a while like that. The back and forth. The flirtatious comments that had your cheeks flushed in heat as you laughed off shyness and pleasant discomfort under the soft gaze of his eyes. Peter was more than thrilled to watch the interactions, the humor between you and the less than subtle attempts at hiding your obvious enjoyment of each other. 

Bucky couldn’t quite remember what Peter’s excuse was this time, but he knew it was bullshit judging from the enormous smirk on the kid’s face. He was a good kid and he understood why you worked so tirelessly to keep Rumlow away from him. 

Once Peter was halfway down the block and you were alone again, you nudging at Bucky’s shoulder with a grin. 

“Got any plans?”

“Whatever you’re doing, I suppose,” Bucky said simply. He winked at you and you started to giggle, muffling it back with the edge of your scarf and it might have been the prettiest sound he’d ever heard. He had to stop and remind himself that Steve was watching from across the street before he overstepped a line. 

He followed you around Brooklyn, just accompanying you on various errands. You had to check in with the art café where you’d purchased the painting a few weeks back because you had requested the contact information of the artist in hopes of commissioning another for your library. 

The moment you stepped foot into the café, a young woman with long, almond colored hair stood up from a table at the center of the room, all nerves and hands wringing at one another, but your smile was enough to calm the poor girl. 

Bucky stood off in the corner, just watching from a distance as she showed you images of her other works on her computer. You nodded, taking the time to point out the specific things you liked about each one; the colors, the brush strokes, the simplicity, the complexity, the creativity. The girl– Wanda, he believed— was smiling so wide, he was sure her cheeks must have been aching by the time you were finished. 

After you shook her hand and made you way back over to Bucky, he asked you what you requested for her to paint. Your library was so sacred to you, he wondered how detailed you were in your request and what kinds of subtle designs you liked most. 

“I gave her free reign, actually,” you said with a shrug. 

You turned and waved at her as she exited the café, her eyes lighting up as she waved back. There was a slight tremor in her hands, an excitement, and Bucky wasn’t at all surprised you had that kind of effect on just about everyone you met. 

“That can be dangerous,” he replied, taking the last bite of his sub and tossing the wrapper in the bin. 

You pursed your lips, unbothered. “She’s wonderful at what she does. It’s different when you can tell how much passion and care goes into art instead of some mindless shapes I could have printed off of a computer. I have no doubt I’ll love whatever she creates.”

Bucky nodded. “You tell her how much you’re willing to pay for it yet?”

You grinned at that. “Thought I’d tell her next time. She was so excited just to get a commission, she completely forgot to ask for compensation. It’ll be a fun surprise, don’t you think?”

“After how much you paid for the one in your spare room, I think she might start doing cartwheels or something,” Bucky laughed, holding open the door for you as you stepped back out into the chill of the winter air.

You were smiling so wide, not even the brim of your scarf could hide it. 

***

Neither of you ever purposely proposed the idea of meeting up around 3pm on Sundays down near the bridge but by the fourth Sunday, Bucky noticed you started to look for him around the few blocks he’d been running into you. You expected to see him now and he found himself waiting patiently down by steps overlooking the water for when you’d show up with Peter at your side.

There was still some nervous chatter, of asking if he wanted to voyage into Queens or run around Brooklyn with you, and Peter making up some lame excuses to leave the two of you alone. It took until the sixth Sunday, of Bucky waiting down by the bridge as you walked directly up to him without a second thought for it to become cemented.

There was no side stepping around it anymore. Peter would say his goodbyes, knowing this was the new routine and judging by the grin on his face and he glanced between you and Bucky, he had no problems with it. 

For another six Sundays, you led Bucky around Brooklyn, sometimes back into Queens, and he’d simply follow you on your errands. You’d talk about mundane things most days; the weather, the Yankees, the latest book you were reading, or the new hipster lunch spot that opened just down the street from your favorite hole-in-the-wall sub shop that you were thoroughly aggravated about. 

But eventually, these conversations had become deeper. 

Without thinking much of it, he told you about Sam and Steve, leaving out important identifying details and their occupations, of course, but he told you about the most important friendships in his life; how Steve had been a scrawny kid with a fiery reflex for picking fights and how Sam was a huge pain, but he was loyal unlike anyone else. He told you about his Ma and his sister, and that he didn’t so much mind having a small family when Sam’s mouth was just so damn loud, it made up for his lack of cousins and aunts at non-existent family reunions. 

You told him all about the published works you’d done at Columbia and how you had dreamed of giving Ted Talks and speaking in conferences and attending conventions all over the world for your work. You’d been invited several times, even in the years since your early retirement. You’d seen the envelopes on the table for only a brief moment, before your husband would ‘misplace’ it or give you an excuse as to why you couldn’t attend, though you knew it was a reconstructed way of warning you not to cross him. You didn’t tell Bucky that, but he could sense your resentment in your voice, could hear it between the lines of your words. 

He supposed after nearly twelve Sunday afternoons together walking through Brooklyn and the small moments of catching the other’s eye across the room back at the mansion and him sneaking away for a moment to find you down in your library nursing a cup a tea, only for you to grin widely upon seeing him, you started to trust him. 

He wondered what did it. 

He’d never told Rumlow about Peter or about seeing you on Sundays, which seemed to be what you were most concerned about when he first started meeting you outside the mansion. Nothing about his time with you was scripted or forced in the way he used to be on undercover assignments. Steve and Sam had stopped following him and orchestrating run-ins months ago. He didn’t have to act like he was interested or force out smiles or grit his teeth and flirt, because he meant everything he said. 

When he was with you, on Sunday afternoons, he was himself. He was Bucky Barnes. 

Only, you didn’t quite know that, did you?

***

Bucky kept his hands tucked into his pockets as he stood at the edge of the dock. It was nearly midnight and the latest shipment of Cerberus was just rolling in. Bucky paused as a crewman forced open the lid off a crate for him to inspect. Inside was several dozens of bricks worth of Hydra’s elite street drug. 

Bright red in color and with the ability to enhance the user’s adrenaline, it’s high made the user feel indestructible, gave them the ability to punch through walls without feeling any pain and sprint faster than they’d ever been able to before. It failed to mentioned the drain of the crash afterwards and the casualties that usually came along with it. 

A guy by the name of Zola was still working on the final touches. There were too many fatalities associated with the current brand and that wasn’t good for business. This batch was the latest upgrade in the chemical makeup. 

“Looks good,” Bucky said to the crewman, a burly looking man with a scar down his jawline and a dark purple bruise on his eye named Markovich. He nodded, sealing the lid again and calling over for another guy to help him carry it down to the trucks. 

Down by the pier, overlooking the crates being hulled to the dock from the boat, was Lenny Jacobs. He was one of the guys Bucky had come to knew well since he started. 

A middle-aged father of three and owner of a laundromat that had nearly gone bankrupt before Rumlow bailed him out, Lenny had been working nights for Hydra in the years since, trying to pay off his debts. He was a decent man, one of the unfortunate ones blackmailed into this work and Bucky made sure to take note of that for Natasha. She was keeping a running list of men like Lenny. Bucky had no interest in bringing the same charges to Lenny as he did to a man like Markovich who was here on his own volition and greed. 

“Hey Lenny, how’s it goin’ tonight?” Bucky asked, stepping up behind him. 

Lenny startled a bit, hand clenched to his chest. Red nose and cheeks from the cold, a white straggling beard, and a heavy cable knit sweater that looked like he might have owned for decades, the poor guy was incredibly out of place amongst the stocky, tattooed men with gold teeth and years’ worth of battle scars. He didn’t belong down here, that Bucky was certain of. 

“Sorry, Mr. Karpov,” Lenny said quickly, head down. He rubbed at his chest with the heel of his palm, wincing slightly. “I was just taking a break. See, I’ve got heart troubles and my wife is real worried about me doing strenuous activity and—”

“It’s no problem, man,” Bucky said quietly. He knew that his cover demanded a cruelty and disregard for men like Lenny, and maybe if he hadn’t met you, he would have succumbed to this character like he’d done all the rest, but instead, he put a hand on Lenny’s shoulder. “Take the night off. Get some rest and be ready for tomorrow.”

“Are you sure?” Lenny asked nervously, glancing back at the crew who didn’t seem to notice their conversation. 

“Scram before I change my mind,” Bucky ordered, though he offered a short smile and a nod before Lenny sighed of relief. He thanked him profusely and quickly walked back to his car. 

Bucky watched him as he disappeared into the cover of darkness, only small blips of his figure illuminated by street lamps every few paces. There was a slight limp in his walk and Bucky cursed under his breath as he turned back to observe the rest of the crew, wondering how Rumlow got off enlisting men like Lenny into the world of Hydra. 

***

It was late when Bucky got back to the Rumlow estate, nearing on three in the morning, but he had been given strict orders to deliver a sample of the Cerberus drug straight to Rumlow’s office when the crew was finished. He dug the package out of his pocket, careful to keep the second one he’d swiped from the crate in the inner fold of his jacket to bring back to Director Fury at the next meeting. 

He stared at it for a moment, studying the red power as it seemed to give off an illuminating shine under the dim reflection of the light. With a heavy sigh, he curled the dime bag into his palm and set his way to the office. 

It gave him a good opportunity to look around for a bit, maybe get some pictures, at least. Six months was the longest he’d gone on an undercover assignment without obtaining a significant piece of significant evidence, though he had to admit that Hydra was unlike any other assignment he’d had before. 

The door to Rumlow’s office didn’t so much as even squeak as the hinges pulled it open. It smelled of dark woods and cigars as Bucky stepped inside and he brushed his coat jacket over his nose as the lingering smoke wafted through the air. 

He placed the Cerberus sample on the desk and slowly pulled his phone from his back pocket. This was something he’d done dozens of times before, so he knew the places to look. Rumlow was a paranoid man and trusted very little of his own men, so Bucky knew he wouldn’t find important documents lying around on top of the desk. 

In his pocket, sat a key Sam had copied for him off of the one he’d found lying on the floor under Rumlow’s desk one late night after the boss had gone to sleep. It fit into the drawer to the left of the bar cart without a hitch and Bucky grinned as the drawer slid open. Inside, were dozens of folders worth of files, tabs listed along the top, cleaning organized evidence. Maybe Sam was good for something, after all. 

But then, Bucky heard footsteps patterning down the hall and he quickly closed the drawer reflexively. Heart pounding in his chest, only to remind himself he had permission to be in this room, he brushed off the collar of his jacket before he retreated from the file cabinet. He’d have to come back to that another day. 

Bucky stepped back into the hallway, only to crash directly into a figure attempting to rush past him. A slight yelp and a hiss of a burning sound as hot water splashed up over a mug and Bucky grabbed onto you, stilling your hand before more of the boiling water touched your skin. 

Folds of pillow creases in your cheeks, your hair thrown up messily away from your face despite the few strands poking out the ends and a solid chunk you’d missed completely running down the nape of your neck, you somehow managed to make his heart flutter just a little harder. You were too endearing, too sweet, and it was going to kill him, he was sure of it. 

You were panting, eyes wide and clearly surprised to find him in your home so late. “James! What are—what are you doing here?”

Eyes rapidly raking over him, heart clearly pounding through your chest, he nearly scared you straight to the floor if not for his hands carefully keeping your knees from buckling under you. 

Bucky let out a heavy breath, a slight chuckle as he started to pull his hands away from you now that you were steady. He brushed out the shoulder of your t-shirt that had bunched up your arm, settling it back along the softness of your skin. You shivered, watching his every movement. 

“I’m just dropping off something for the boss.”

You nodded quickly, stepping back from him. Bucky couldn’t help but notice your stare trailing down by his feet. You seemed to focus on the white salt lining the edges of his boots. 

“Is your hand alright?” Bucky asked softly, gesturing to the red patch on the back of your hand where the hot water had singed your skin. 

You licked at your lips, nodding absentmindedly, almost in a dream-like state. You stood still for a minute, your stare moving up and gluing to the center of his chest as he watched you. There was a slight tear in his jacket from a crate he’d lifted from the shipment. He wondered if you could smell the salt water on his skin, too. 

The small reminders of what he did for your husband neither of you wanted to acknowledge. 

“Y/n?” he tried to gather your attention again, tilting his head down to find your eyes. Taking a risk, he reached out and gently pried the tea from your hand. You let it go easily and he set it on the table. 

As he looked over the red mark, you winced, though your eyes stayed trained to the buttons of his shirt. The redness was already starting to go down and it didn’t seem to leave any serious burns behind, but he pressed his palm gingerly over the redness. His hands always ran like ice anyway and it seemed like they could finally be put to decent use.

The cold of his hands on yours seemed to wake you up at least, because you sucked in a harsh breath, blinked a few times, and finally met his eye again. He released your hand as your stare trailed down to where he was carefully holding it within his own and took a step back, giving you space if you needed it.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, yawning. “I’m a little out of it, I guess.”

“You’re allowed to be,” Bucky chuckled nervously. “I did just run right into you at three in the mornin’ in your own home. You had no reason to suspect I’d be lurking around.”

You smiled a bit, the curve of the corner of your lips bringing him a slight ease. You reached for the mug on the counter and carefully blew on the steam. Chewing on the edge of your lips, you started to try and brush back the stray wisps in your hair, realizing that you had just rolled out of bed. Bucky didn’t mind though. The innocence of it, the simplicity, somehow made his heart swell even more. 

“Trouble sleeping?” he asked and you shrugged, a slight nod following. It seemed to be a usual occurrence for you, to sneak down to the kitchen to make tea in the early hours of the morning when the stars were still blanketed in the sky and the darkness blended to the shadows, when your husband was fast asleep. 

Bucky was no stranger to sleepless nights either. Seemed to be another thing you had in common. 

“You busy?” you asked casually, a lightness returning to you and Bucky didn’t mind you changing the subject. He didn’t much like to talk about his own issues with sleep either. 

“Might be able to clear my schedule,” he shrugged with a teasing smile. 

You nodded towards the hallway and Bucky knew where you were leading him without having to ask. 

He’d been down this hall more times than he could count in the last six months. You’d been handing him new books to read like a revolving door, and even though Sam mocked him mercilessly for the first edition copies sitting in his bag or on the seat of his car and he’d brush it off as if it was only part of the assignment, but the truth was, he liked reading whatever you placed in his hands. He liked seeing how bright you’d smile when he told you what he thought when he was finished even more. 

You pushed open the doors to the library and quickly found your place in the side of the couch closest to the window. You curled up against the arm rest, hulling blankets over your lap and settling into the cushions. Bucky couldn’t help but smile as he watched you. He took a seat on the opposite end of the couch and crossed one leg over the other. 

It was quiet for a minute as you sipped your tea, but Bucky didn’t mind the silence much. It was something that used to bother him before you. Now, it felt more like a comfort. It was in the silence where often where he found you.

“When’s the last time you read _To Kill a Mockingbird_?” you asked.

Bucky glanced over at you with a smile. He knew there was more on your mind at this hour than the classic literature he may or may not have skimmed his way through in his school days, but he wasn’t interested in pushing you to tell him more than you offered willingly. 

In another life, under another name, he might have asked more questions, might have dug around for the reasons why you spent so many sleepless nights on your own and away from your husband, why you seemed to change the subject whenever he asked about Rumlow, but he didn’t. As much as he wanted to destroy Hydra and Rumlow and everything they stood for, the last thing he wanted was to hurt you in the process. 

So he pushed aside his better judgement. 

“Probably too long ago for your standards,” he replied, earning that smiles of yours in return that made his stomach twist. 

You jumped up from the couch, setting the tea back on the coffee table and adding another watermark to the collection. By the time you returned, you were carrying two copies in your hand and you tossed one into Bucky’s lap. 

“Why do you have two of the same book?” he laughed, brushing his hand over the cover to clean away the small dust particles. 

“One is a special edition and also,” you scrunched your nose, “because I can.” 

You grinned at him before you plopped back down on the couch, this time more noticeably closer to him than the time before, though neither of you said anything about it. Your thigh was only inches from his, your shoulders pressed back to the same cushion; so close he could feel the warmth of you radiating in the space between. 

Bucky chuckled, watching as you curled up under the blankets and turned over the cover to begin reading. He watched you for a moment, just observing the way the edges of your lips curved as you scanned the pages, a contentment coming just from the privilege of reading something so precious to you. 

Telling himself he was only staying to build the trust Fury ordered he earn, Bucky settled in and turned over the first page. He disregarded the ease with which he relaxed next to you, the comfort of the silence, save for the few turns of pages every so often, and the gentle thumping of his heart every time your eyes glanced up at him over the top of your book. 

Forty minutes later and three chapters in, his lids starting to fall heavy from the warmth of your blankets and the sweet smell of orange and ginger from your tea sitting on the end of the coffee table, when he felt a slight pressure on his arm. 

Bucky’s breath hitched in his chest as he looked down to find your book held limply in your hands, the binding resting in your lap, and your eyes closed as you curled into his side. Your hands snaked around his right arm in your sleep, tugging him tight to your chest and holding onto his arm like a stuffed animal. A soft sigh left your lips as you nuzzled against him, resting your cheek to his shoulder, content. 

Bucky glanced over to the clock hung high on the wall to find it was nearing four in the morning. He was supposed to meet Natasha downtown in an hour to give her an update on the shipment logs, but you were so warm, so soft against him, he wondered for a moment if he could come up with an excuse that could evade even an ex-KGB agent. But while he was clearly foolish enough to let himself fall into the fantasy of it for even a moment, he wasn’t stupid. 

With a sigh, he placed his copy of _To Kill a Mockingbird_ on the table, mindful of the watermarks left behind by your tea, and slowly began to pry your fingers from around his bicep. You were warm to the touch, a furnace next to him, and you only seemed to hold on tighter the more he tried to get you to release him.

A soft chuckle breaking through the silence, save for your even breaths, Bucky carefully slipped out from under your blanket and off the side of the couch. He gently laid your head against a pillow he propped up, brushing the hair from your eyes. You released his arm and nestled into the new position, still fast asleep. 

Bucky sat back on the coffee table for a moment, just watching the way your nose scrunched in your sleep; how you tucked your hand under the pillow and shifted just enough for the blanket to fall from the couch. 

Bucky bent down, grabbed the soft fabric in his hands and gingerly draped it over you. He let the edge fall just above your shoulders and you curled your fingers into the cushion of it and tugging it up under your neck. 

Bucky smiled, brushing a hand over his mouth. He knew he had to leave, that he was already treading on thin ice around you, but he could have stayed there for hours to watch you sleep. It was the first time in years, since he’d been home from his deployment, that he wanted to sleep, too, instead of evading it as he did most nights. 

He wondered what it would be like to lay by your side, to let you curl against him as you had and to let himself hold you. To feel the heat of your body and the soft breaths on his neck as you tucked your chilled nose to his collarbone. 

They were dangerous thoughts and they were getting harder and harder to push away.

Reluctantly, Bucky stood to his feet. His fingers trailed over your hairline, tucking a bit of fallen wisps behind your ear. You smiled at the feeling and though Bucky knew it was reflexive, he couldn’t seem to stop the swell in his chest. 

Not even as he left the room, gently closing the door behind him.

Not even as he got in his car and drove down to mid-town. 

Not even as he stepped into a Starbucks at five in the morning on a weekday.

Natasha was waiting for him in the far corner of the room. She wasn’t the only one inside, not with the couple standing at the counter with a set of luggage at their feet, the college student huddled over a stack of binders and textbooks, and the middle-aged woman sleeping soundly at a booth away from the windows. 

Natasha was wearing an old university t-shirt, large over-the-ear headphones, and typing away at her computer, very clearly ignoring the stares of a still drunk man in his early-twenties who must have stumbled into the Starbucks on accident. 

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” Bucky said as he came up behind the man, nudging his shoulder when he didn’t tear his eyes away from Natasha. 

He groaned, grumbling under his breath as he dramatically stumbled out the door and back into the streets. Bucky brushed at his nose, the stale smell of alcohol still present even as the man left. 

“I had it handled,” Nat said as Bucky took a seat opposite her. She didn’t look up from the screen. 

“Yeah, I know.” Bucky shrugged, glancing back over his shoulder to check for eavesdroppers. Natasha was more than capable of dealing with a semi-drunk frat boy without Bucky’s intervention, but that didn’t mean she had to. 

“What do you got for me?” she asked, green eyes flickering up to his.

Bucky sighed, settling into the chair and pulled a few files from his coat pocket and placed them on the table. “Got a few more names of guys working the shipyards, ones who are there willingly and the ones who seem to be blackmailed. I’ve got a sample of the product too, but it’s in the safe in my car until I can get it to Fury.”

“Good,” Natasha nodded, scanning over the papers Bucky brought for her. 

“I tried to use the key Sam copied for me,” Bucky continued, “but I couldn’t get in.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Every muscle in Bucky’s body went rigid. Natasha pursed her lips as she scanned over the folders on the table. She was always so calm about these things, even as Bucky’s heart rate skyrocketed. 

He forgot about the bugs he planted at the mansion in his first week in Hydra. Sure, he hadn’t done enough to give Natasha proof that he was overstepping on his assignment, that he was doing more than just following orders from Fury to get close to you, but Natasha was perceptive. 

He bit on his tongue and he was certain Nat picked up on his sudden tension. She picked up on everything. 

“You should be more careful around her,” Nat said quietly, though she didn’t tear her eyes away from the documents. For that, Bucky was thankful, because he wasn’t sure he’d be able to meet her eye. “I’m the only one with access to the mics and I’m sure, right now, I might be one of only three people who would be able to tell that the way you talk to Y/n and how you treat her is hell of a lot more like how Bucky Barnes would than James Karpov, but you need to watch yourself.”

Bucky nodded quickly. She was right and she didn’t even have ears on his Sunday meetups with you. Fury might not be able to pick up on the difference between his acting on previous assignments and how he was with you, but she sure as hell could, and he would bet Steve and Sam would, too. 

“I get that she’s not like other targets,” Nat sighed, turning to look at Bucky. He wished she wouldn’t. He felt like fire under her gaze. “She’s not the bad guy here and that makes it harder to separate yourself from your cover. You want to rescue her.”

“What? N-No, I–” Bucky tried to argue but Natasha didn’t buy it for a second. 

“She’s trapped,” Natasha said apologetically. “She’s trapped in a criminal world she clearly doesn’t belong in, trapped in a marriage to a monster she doesn’t love.”

Bucky gritted his teeth. He knew your relationship with Rumlow was strained, it was messy and complicated, but to hear it aloud was something entirely different. There was a reason he disliked leaving you alone in that house when he left after his shifts, a reason why you avoided talking about your husband on your Sunday errands together, and why Bucky – or _James_ – became the person you sought out in every room you walked into. 

Natasha set her hand on Bucky’s forearm, squeezing it gently. She had enormous capacity for empathy and kindness few were privileged to see. Bucky swallowed back the bile in his throat. 

“You’re a guy who likes to save people, Bucky,” she said slowly, gently and it somehow still managed to tear through him like ice. “I just don’t know if you can this time. Not without compromising the entire investigation. We can’t let this one fall through the cracks. We _can’t._ There’s too much riding on this case.”

He knew. It was why he had been pushing his feelings to the side, screaming at himself from the back of his head every time he found his eyes drifting towards you as you passed by the living room, when he started walking down to your library every moment he could steal a second away, his feet carrying him of their own volition, when he felt the nerves twist in his stomach when you’d smile at him, or when you’d wave him down from across the street in Brooklyn with your cousin Peter at your side. 

He knew he was falling too deep and he couldn’t catch himself. There was nothing to grab onto to keep him from diving into a dark and messy abyss. He wasn’t sure he even wanted to. 


	6. Five

You were in trouble.

Wrinkles up by blue-grey eyes and that slight little curve over pink lips every time you walked in the room, a nod in acknowledgement that carried like a secret amongst a crowd of a men.

With his position in the corner of the room and your husband front and center addressing a battalion, the burn of a gentle, watchful gaze followed you as you passed by to the kitchen. James Karpov was surely going to be the death of you.

There was nothing more than innocent conversations between you; late nights in your library just reading together and walking around Brooklyn accompanying you on mindless errands. It was harmless on the surface, something you could easily disregard as a convenient acquaintance filling a void of a companionship you’d lost years ago.

But you weren’t foolish enough for that. You could recognize the twist of nerves in your stomach when he met your eye, when he showed up in your library late at night carrying the latest book you’d lent to him that week, and when he waved over to you and Peter as you made your way to the bridge on Sunday afternoons.

Perhaps, if your time with James was as innocent as you wanted to believe, you wouldn’t be putting in so much effort into hiding it from your husband.

James seemed to know better, at least. He was cautious with you and you could sense the sliver of hesitation when he came too close to crossing a line he couldn’t come back from, the halted breath he stifled, before he ultimately backed away. 

There would be a slight flinch in his hand when his stride fell too close to yours and your knuckles would graze against one another in your pace. He’d clear his throat, eyes darting down to the floor and blush in his cheeks when you’d stare at one another for too long, words trailing off to silence because sometimes just sitting with him in the quiet was enough.

He had nervous ticks, you’d come to realize; ones that surprised you for a man of his position in Hydra. He liked to push his hair behind his ears, raking his fingers through the thick, brunette waves incessantly and shifting on his feet. He’d chuckled nervously, trying to laugh off something real as a joke, and it was nothing if not incredibly endearing. 

You began to long for the way he’d flop down onto the couch in your library with you in the late hours of the evening, long after Brock had gone to sleep, in the quiet, stolen moments when you could smell the faint scent of his body wash and his thigh would brush yours. The fact that he made no effort to move away didn’t pass your notice. 

You cherished every stolen smile from across the room, the secret knowing glances that conveyed a world of meaning, of having shared moments together and inside jokes and something that was entirely your own, something that reminded you of the way things had been before Hydra, before your husband.

James reminded you of who you could have been without Brock, who you _were,_ who you _still could be._

It was dangerous – _you knew that_ – to care for him in this way. 

You felt no loyalty to Brock, no love shared between you in years. Even in your youth when you’d loved him, you knew now that he never once felt even an ounce of what you had. Everything he did was calculating and political; including his relationship with you. Brock’s jealousy and possessiveness had nothing to do with affection and everything to do with his need to control and place you on display. To show his men that he’d won the trophy and to assert his power by putting a bullet through anyone who so much as looked at you.

It also served to keep you alone and isolated. He liked to keep you dependent, _trapped._ It was the only way you’d stay. It was your only choice.

You’d accepted that for a while. For nearly three years.

Until James.

It became harder and harder to fall into the role Brock had assigned for you, to let him parade you on his arm at fundraiser galas he’d funnel into Hydra’s pockets, to let him kiss you and touch you, to lay by his side at night and feel the cage of his arms around you like a mindless doll that could have been just about anyone as far as your husband was concerned.

He’d had his affairs, slept with models and women looking to increase their status within Hydra for a price. You hadn’t cared. You welcomed it. It kept him from his desires to take you to bed for a while, at least. He was always too rough, too eager and disregarding of whether your body was attuned to his or whether you were ready for him. You learned to tune it out after a while. He never lasted long, anyway.

It was the moments late at night, when you dared to wonder whether James would be gentle with you, that scared you the most.

You closed your eyes, curled as far away from Brock as you could manage, nearly hanging off the side of the bed, and let yourself dream about how James’ hands would feel running down your arms, over your back, along your spine. 

You wondered if his hands were calloused and rough from years of labored work or smooth and soft like Brock’s. You thought of the sweet way his lips curved into that half smile, how it lit up into the pale blue of his eyes and illuminated golden flecks hidden deep in his irises. You wondered how warm his breath might feel as it ghosted over your skin.

Caught up in the fantasy of stepping past the line drawn in the sand, you dreamed of touching his chest, of curling your fingers into the nape of his hair, of kissing at his cheekbones, his jawline, and nipping at his lips. 

Lush and pink and so incredibly soft.

But it was on the darkest of nights, as Brock slept soundly beside you, an arm thrown over your waist like an anchor sinking you to the depths of the ocean, that you dared to imagine how James might kiss at your neck, how his hand roaming over your side might dip just a little lower under fabric and seeking heat, if his fingers might slip between your legs and find solace there. 

You wondered how he would feel, what it would be like to be as close as two people can be, if the stretch would ache just enough. You wondered if he’d rock into you to prolong the high or if he’d take you rushed and rough. You wondered if he’d still kiss you after he came.

_Dangerous thoughts._

***

“Hey Mr. Karpov!” Peter sprinted out ahead of you, chasing down to where James was leaning with his back against a lamp post near the water. He grinned as Peter ran up to him, pushing himself off the post and chuckling to himself.

“Hey kid,” James raised his hand and gave Peter a high five. He turned to you with a softer smile that nearly made your knees give out as he said, “hey Y/n.”

“Hey,” you replied as easily, chewing on your lip. It was getting hard to shove those dangerous thoughts beneath the surface when he looked at you as sweetly as he did.

“So, you going to sneak me into the Lernaean yet?” Peter asked for the seventh Sunday in a row. He was relentless and James had been nothing but charming in every instance he turned him down. 

You didn’t know how to express your gratitude because you knew just about every other Hydra member wouldn’t have batted an eye to sneak an underage kid into the club. They were easier targets to sell their product to. Young. Naïve. Looking to fit in.

But James wasn’t like the rest of them. 

“Try again next time, Pete,” James chuckled, shaking his head. Peter didn’t seem bothered by it at all as he shrugged dramatically. He turned to leave, as he usually did, but James clearly his throat, an apologetic look on his face and suddenly, your heart was sinking. “I’m sorry, but I can’t stick around today.”

“Oh,” was all you said. You winced at how disappointed you sounded.

He clenched his jaw, nodding. “I’ve got business for the boss out of town today.”

“What kind of business does a bouncer need to do?” Peter questioned, and thankfully, James was just as quick on his feet. 

“Checking out security for the club at a vender in Jersey. Don’t be so nosy, punk,” James replied without missing a beat. He ruffled Peter’s hair until he swatted James’ away, though it was amusing to watch. 

You didn’t know what business your husband assigned for him, but you knew what James did for a living, so you knew it was nothing good. It was impossible to merge the idea of James as Brock knew him to the James you did. You couldn’t imagine him doing the things Jack Rollins’ had been capable of when he was alive. You’d heard the stories, the chatter amongst the men in the living room, of how he’d beaten men to death and shot them down in the street on nothing but an order from your husband.

You couldn’t stand to think of James in that way. It was a dissonance, an irregularity, a mistake. It went against every instinct you had and you were usually better at reading people than this.

“So, what are you still doing here?” you asked awkwardly, swallowing back your disappointment. “If you’re supposed to be out of town, I mean.”

James turned to you, a slight sigh in his breath and he looked about as disappointed as you felt. “I wanted to make sure you knew I wasn’t just skipping town and blowing you off.”

Heat burned in your cheeks and you nodded, looking down at the ground. So many divots in the pavement and scuff marks from bicycles and skateboards in the sidewalk…

“That’s, uh, that’s very kind of you, James.”

He couldn’t just say those sorts of things to you and expect your heart not to swell a dozen sizes. You were certain if you looked up at him, you’d be met with ocean blue eyes that could see right into your soul and you weren’t quite sure you could handle that.

“Next time,” James started, pulling a phone from his pocket and handing it to Peter, who started typing it in without being told, “I’ll call and let you know. Alright?”

You raised an eyebrow as Peter handed the phone back to James. He typed into the screen, chewing on his lip as he deleted part of the message and retyped it again before hitting send. Then, your pocket buzzed and you pulled it out to find a message from an unknown number.

**For next time – James.**

And just like that, you were smiling so wide, you had to chew on the inside of your cheek just to reign it in a little. Peter was snickering to himself, surely enjoying your fluster and James, as sweet as he is, didn’t say a word.

“Smart thinking,” you said, holding up the phone in acknowledgement before you slipped it back into your pocket.

James shrugged, winking at you. “I should head out.” He turned to Peter. “Don’t give your cousin such a headache today, you hear me?”

“Yes, sir,” Peter grinned.

James gave you that soft smile, the subtle nod, and he turned to walk towards the subway.

But then your heart started to clench and suddenly, you found yourself chasing up to him. He was surprised to find you on his heels and froze on the sidewalk, glancing around you thinking there might be some sort of danger, but your hand gripped at his forearm, grabbing his attention back to you.

“Just be careful, will you?”

You swallowed nervously, voice impossibly small, and James’ entire demeanor shifted. A sense of relief followed by something you couldn’t quite place. A sadness, maybe?

He nodded, pushing out a smile that curved ever so slightly on his lips. “Of course. I’ve still got half the Harry Potter series to finish, don’t I?”

You laughed, feeling the tension quickly dissipate at the memory. He was surprised to find you had modern first editions too and you almost whacked him upside the head when he told you he’d never read the series before.

“See you tomorrow, Y/n.”

“Okay.”

You watched as he turned to head back down the street, the slight swagger in his steps, the weight of his walk, hands shoved into his pockets as he glanced down the street before crossing to the other side. You hardly noticed Peter come up beside you.

“I like that guy,” he said simply, as if you didn’t already know how much Peter had come to idolize James. The thought alone would have terrified you a few months back, before you really knew him and he was just the enforcer to the organization you loathed, but now, it only made you smile.

“Yeah,” you sighed, turning to Peter and nodding for him to follow you to the lunch spot you were going to offer to bring James, “me, too.”

***

This was the last place Bucky wanted to be.

Most of the time, when he was sent on these sorts of assignments undercover, he’d rather be sitting on the couch in Steve’s basement, watching football on the big screen and rooting against whatever team Sam was for. He’d rather have a cold beer in his hand and a sweatshirt over his shoulders and massive bowl of Peggy’s buffalo chicken dip, though he still didn’t know how a Brit perfected his favorite football snack.

But lately, since meeting you, he’d found himself picturing sitting on the end of your sofa under warm blankets long after the sun set, the smell of sweet herbal tea wafting from your mug on the coffee table, the crisp sound of pages turning – yours a little faster than his – and the way you’d glance up over the bridge of your book to check for his expression, wondering if he got to your favorite part yet.

Hell, he’d happily take strolling mindlessly through Brooklyn, following on your heels through your list of errands as watching you interact with the owners, that bright shining smile on your face. He’d rather be anywhere you were, he realized, and it made his blood run cold.

No – instead, he was walking up to an abandoned factory building in on the outskirts of D.C. with graphiti on the walls and the distinct smell of sulfur hanging in the air. Rumlow sent him to check on the progress of Cerberus, the drug they were trying to perfect, because it was still killing more users than it was addicting.

Fury had sent Bucky’s sample to the lab and they were still working on decoding its makeup. It was a nasty concoction of a whole lot of bad as far as he was concerned, and he didn’t much care what was in it as long as it could be used to put Rumlow and all his men behind bars.

Bucky shoved his shoulder into the door, the squeak of the old metal and rust echoing through the room. Inside, was a series of long tables and dozens of men and women working with masks over their faces and gloves on their hands as they handled the bright red powder. It was loud, the whirring sounds of the machines taking up much of the space and voices calling over one another.

Bucky slid his way down the aisle, carefully observing until he came upon a short, round man with glasses sitting on the brim of his nose.

“Ah, Mr. Karpov,” he greeted, thick German accent. “I’m glad to see you made it.”

“What do you want, Zola?” he grumbled. It was the second part of his assignment. Check the progress. Attend to whatever Zola was bothering the boss about; something about an out of line employee with sticky fingers.

“Straight to the point I see.” Zola pulled off his gloves and nodded for a woman standing behind him to take his place. He turned to Bucky. “Come with me.”

Bucky clenched his jaw, following him through the aisles of tables filled with stacks and bricks of Cerberus until they came upon a room in the vary back of the factory. It was locked and Zola took nearly a full minute to punch in the code.

When the door opened, Bucky was surprised to find a man strapped to a chair at the center of the room, hands bound by rope to the arm rests and mouth covered with tape. His eyes widened upon seeing Bucky, fear jolting through him, and the muffled screaming started.

“Hush now,” Zola warned, the condescending shit that he was. He gestured to the man. “This is Benny Ripley. We discovered that he’s been skimming our product in the lower east side. Four dime bags in the last week! Isn’t that right?”

Benny was talking, shouting maybe, against the tape but Bucky couldn’t understand a word of it.

“He must be an example to the rest of our dealers, James,” Zola said and Benny’s eyes went wide, his head shaking back and forth. “We can’t allow them to believe we are the forgiving type. Do you understand?”

This man talked to him like he was all muscle and no brain. It took nearly everything in him not to wrap his hands around the tiny little man and shove him to the wall himself.

But instead, he muttered, “of course, sir.”

“Good.” Zola wiped off his hands. Benny was still talking, voice still muffled, and Zola rolled his eyes, darting a hand to the side of the man’s face and bluntly ripping away the tape, leaving a bright red mark in its place.

Benny didn’t even take time to wince or cry or stretch out his jaw before he was begging.

“Please man, don’t do this.” His voice was cracking as he stared at Bucky. “I’ve– I’ve got kids! They had me test the stuff a few months back and now I’m– I’m– _fuck._ The shits expensive, okay! I didn’t– I didn’t know what else to do. Please, just let me go, man. I’ll– I’ll do anything.”

Bucky hated this part of the job.

It was one thing when it was a low life sonuvabitch but this guy? _Shit._ He was one of the ones that got roped into this life without much of a choice and judging by the look in his eye and the flash of his stare down to the gun strapped on Bucky’s hip, he was scared.

Bucky hated it when they were scared.

It wasn’t the first time he’d dirtied his hands for Hydra and he knew it wouldn’t be the last. It certainly didn’t help his conscious in the meantime.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Zola grinned.

_Fucking bastard._

No one ever specified what it was he was required to do. It was his best workaround. He’d rough the guy up a bit and send him on his way. Bruises healed. Bullets were a little more complicated.

“Come on man,” Benny begged again, trying to wiggle his way out of the chair.

Bucky wanted to tell him to just stop talking, to stay still and take it and it would be over soon. He’d be careful with his hits. He knew how to punch just hard enough to cause bruising but to avoid cracking bones. It’ll look like a mess, but he’ll heal.

He wanted to tell him to stop looking at him like he was a fucking killer, but he knew his cover, and James Karpov wouldn’t have given a second thought to beating the guy to death.

So, he ignored Benny’s pleas and threw the first punch to the side of his face. He stepped back, shaking out his hand, and the poor guy kept begging. He only stopped after the fourth hit, when blood was spewing from his mouth and his skin was beet red. Bucky kept going until his knuckles were raw and broken and Benny’s head hung forward in the chair. He’d lost consciousness.

Bucky had been hoping it would happen sooner, but the guy was a fighter. He toughed it out longer than he should have.

With a heavy groan, Bucky untied Benny’s arms and hulled his body up over his shoulder. He kicked open the door to the office with a thunderous boom and the entire factory went silent. He marched down to the center of the crown, ignoring the hushed whispers of the workers and the prideful smirk on Zola’s face as he dropped Benny down to the ground.

“Steal from our shit, this is what happens!” Bucky called out, pointing down to Benny. He was unmoving on the ground, blood dripping from his mouth onto the concrete. Gasps filled the otherwise completely silent room. “I won’t be as kind with the next one!”

His words echoed up through the rafters and Bucky desperately wished he was in your library with you, listening to your soft humming and you picked out the next book on your list for him, instead of being on the receiving end of so many terrified stares.

“Get back to work!” he shouted, waving his arm and everyone turned back to their tables instantly, the machines kicking back into gear, though no one was talking.

“Good job Mr. Karpov,” Zola said, nudging Benny’s arm with the toe of his shoe and giggling when it fell limply back to the ground.

“You need anything else?” Bucky grumbled.

Zola shook his head, still grinning down at Benny’s unconscious frame. “No, no. This is quite enough.”

Thank god.

***

“This is why I keep you around, Karpov,” Rumlow smirked, pouring two glasses of scotch from the crystalline container on the bar cart. He passed a glass to Bucky, despite his reluctance to accept, and leaned back against the desk. “I heard you scared the shit out of that place.”

Bucky nodded, taking a sip of the amber liquid because simply being in a room alone with Rumlow was reason enough to drink. It burned in his throat and down his chest.

“Had to make an example.”

“Personally, I would have just killed him.” Rumlow shrugged, throwing back nearly half his glass in a single gulp. He smacked his lips, sighing at the taste or the feeling or the bloodlust – Bucky didn’t know. Rumlow raised a finger to him, extending from the hand gripped around the glass. “I admire your creativity.”

“Figured it would have more impact to see the guy walking around for the next two months with all that shit on his face than seeing a body for a few hours,” Bucky said, detesting the words as they came out.

“Genius!” Rumlow laughed, finishing the rest of his glass. Buck had hardly made a dent. “Knew I liked you for a reason.”

Bucky pushed out the most of a smile he could manage. It was tight and barely in a thin line and it certainly didn’t reach his eyes, but Rumlow didn’t seem to care. He set the empty glass down on the desk and swung around the other side to grab his coat. Bucky raised a brow.

“You heading out, sir?” he asked. It was nearing on two in the morning.

Rumlow nodded. “Got a meeting downtown.”

The smirk that followed made Bucky sick to his stomach.

He knew exactly where Rumlow was heading; into the arms of a woman waiting for him in the suite of a hotel he often frequented. It wasn’t unusual for him, to so openly cheat on you and joke about it with his men as if infidelity was something to boast about.

Bucky hoped that while you were married to Rumlow, you didn’t love him, just as Natasha had suspected. He tried to tell himself that he only wished that to be true in hopes you wouldn’t be hurt by Rumlow’s actions, but he knew, deep down, it was because of his own feelings for you.

He couldn’t bear the thought of you loving a man like Rumlow.

Though, glancing down at his hands, broken and bloodied, raw and used, he wondered if he was really any better.

After Rumlow shrugged on his coat and disappeared out into the hall, Bucky took a moment to breathe. His hands were aching and he needed to get them disinfected if he didn’t want them to swell and ooze by morning. The slam of the front door rang through the hall and even from back in the office, Bucky could hear the Maserati roaring to life.

With a heavy sign, he made his way down into the kitchen to grab a damp towel and some antibiotic from the cabinet before settling down on the couch in the living room. He had some time before Rumlow returned anyway and he planned to be gone before the bastard came back.

He winced, hissing, as the cloth touched the open wounds. Red seeped into the light blue of the terrycloth and he gripped at his fists, clenching his jaw as tried to brush away the dried blood and dirt. 

“James?”

His breath caught in his throat.

The damn near sweetest voice he ever heard calling his name; the kind that made his stomach twist in knots, his heart flutter like he was sixteen years old again on the schoolyard, and despite the blood coating the broken knuckles of his fists and the splatter of red over his collar, his cheeks turned the slightest shade of pink.

Bucky glanced up to find you standing on the top steps of the staircase, dressed in an oversized t-shirt falling just to the mid of your thigh as you wrapped your robe tighter across your chest to hide from the cold. A shiver ran up your spine and you looked around the room nervously, checking for unwanted observers.

“He’s not home,” Bucky said quietly, knowing exactly who you were looking for. A relief flowed through the tension in your shoulders and you smiled softly at him.

You were stunning, Bucky thought to himself, even with your hair mangled from sleep and pillow creases in your cheeks, no makeup upon your face and toes curling under bare feet. He’d never seen a prettier sight.

Your eyes trailed down to his hands as he wrung them in his lap, dabbing the blood away with an old, fraying washcloth.

“Oh my god,” you gasped, rushing down the stairs to him. “What happened?”

Bucky realized then as you swung around the banister, that he was sitting upon a couch more expensive than his apartment and quickly jolted up away from the suede fabric.

“ _Sit down_ ,” you ordered and he fell back on the couch without another word.

He chuckled a bit under his breath at your sternness, the clear worry lines in your forehead, and he struggle not to reach out and brush his thumb against them to ease the lines away.

The weight of the couch dipped ever so slightly as you sat next to him and your eyes fell back to his hands. He gritted his teeth, hating that you ever saw him like this, a reminder of who he was to your husband, who he was supposed to be.

You knew him as a criminal, a murderer, and yet you still managed to look at him like he was worth something in this world.

“I thought I told you to be careful,” you sighed, slowly tearing away your gaze from his hands to meet his eye. There was a guilt in your voice that broke his heart, like you were somehow responsible for your husband’s orders.

An overwhelming urge ached deep within his chest; an urge to tell you who he was, to tell you he could take you away from all this if you’d let him, but he bit his tongue.

“M’always careful,” Bucky said but you didn’t believe him. He glanced down to see the broken knuckles on his fists and the sting of the cloth burned twice as hard.

“I worry about you, James,” you said in a hushed whisper and it damn near broke him in two. 

He tore his eyes away from you, certain he’d break from his cover in an instant if you looked at him like that any longer, like you might envelope him into your arms if he would just come willingly. He’d lay his head on your chest and wrap his arms around your waist and maybe you’d stroke his back and run your fingers through his hair and he’d find an ounce of solace amongst all the violence and crime and pain he’d emerged himself in for the last few years.

You tilted your head, studying his expression. “Are you alright? James?”

It stung when you called him that, he realized. 

But he nodded slowly, watching silently as your hands ghosted over his and took the washcloth from his grasp. Wordlessly, you cradled his right hand, cold fingers against the heat his palm. 

Your hands were so small; delicate and tender. He found himself wondering, as he often did, of what those hands would feel like sweeping the side of his face, running over his cheekbones or circling on his thigh. He didn’t dare think of more. 

You dabbed the cloth against the open wounds on his knuckles and he hissed.

“Sorry,” you muttered, offering him a grimace.

“S’okay,” he replied sincerely despite the sting on his skin.

When you were finished cleaning away the blood and gently applied the antibiotic gel, you wrapped his hands in the spare gauze you’d found under the kitchen sink. The moment your hands left his, he felt a wave of cold, _of emptiness,_ pass over him. You must have felt it too because you were having a hard time looking at him.

You swallowed, turning away from him and stared down at the floor. Your arms wrapped at your robe, tugging it tight over your chest. “What did he have you do this time?”

“It’s nothing you need to know about,” Bucky replied dimly, pushing out a smile for you but you saw right past it, you always did.

“That’s what Brock always says.”

That hurt. He didn’t want you to think he was anything like your husband but it was part of his cover. He had to be convincing, even to you.

“Just… be safe, will you?” you sighed, raking your fingers through your hair. “The things Brock asks of you… they can be so dangerous. I don’t know what I would… if something were to happen to you…”

“Come on, now,” he cooed, leaning forward enough to see your face despite the hair that fell in his way, “won’t be that easy to bring me down. Don’t you have any faith in me?”

The edges of your lips curved and Bucky couldn’t help the grin on his face. You turned to him, smiling, and brushed at your eyes. His face softened, surprised by the redness there, and he wanted to ask if you were alright, wanted to know if he was the cause of those tears…

But then, headlights flooded into the living room, pulling both of you from the sanctuary of your aloneness.

Bucky stood quickly, facing the door, and you were already halfway to the stairs, well-conditioned in your response time by now.

Bucky glanced over his shoulder, watching as you started to ascend the stairs, but you were slow in your steps, reluctant. You met his eye over the edge of the banister and smiled softly, sadly. He hated that you were making your way to Rumlow’s bed, to lay under sheets you shared with a monster.

Bucky wondered sometimes if he was any better.

He tried not to think of the day you’d find out he was lying to you all this time because he was almost certain he’d lose you, whatever piece of you he did have, and it would kill him.

He mouthed ‘goodnight’ and you nodded, lingering just a moment longer before you disappeared up the steps. The soft, padding of your footsteps were barely noticeable amongst the hardwood floors but he listened intently before he heard the squeak of your bedroom door close.

The front door swung open with a loud _bang_ and Rumlow stumbled inside, grumbling under his breath as he threw his coat onto the couch and kicked off his shoes. He was surprised to find Bucky standing in his living room. Bucky held up his hands, giving a slight shrug, and Rumlow nodded in understanding.

He closed the door behind him. “Damn broad didn’t even show. Had to take care of her gremlins.”

Bucky clenched his jaw, doing his best to keep a stern face.

“Don’t have kids, man,” Rumlow grunted as he made his way up the stairs. “Little life ruiners.”

Bucky nodded, not daring to even open his mouth because he wasn’t quite sure what would come out. He wondered if you could hear Rumlow coming up the steps from inside your room, if you were anxious or afraid or simply tired of it all.

But mostly, he wondered if you wished it was him.


	7. Six

A few weeks had passed since you’d found Bucky in your living room in the early hours of the morning, hunched over your very expensive furniture and catching droplets of blood before they stained the satin finish. You’d taken every excuse you could get to check on his wounds, to rewrap them and try to sooth the stinging pain of open cuts anyway, and Bucky was more than happy to oblige.

You’d scrunch your nose at him from across the room, eyes darting down to the pink bandages circling at his knuckles that had been white the day before and you’d quickly turn down the hall to your library, a silent order to follow. Bucky never wasted a second, excusing himself from the meetings that proved to be useless outside of gossip on Rumlow’s _business meetings_ downtown past 2am.

He’d find you waiting on your couch, the first aid kit already unpacked as if you’d prepared for him ahead of time and you’d wordlessly gesture to the spot beside you. The scowl on your face as you unwrapped the bandages and found he’d been careless with applying the anti-bacterial cream you’d given him was enough to make his stomach flutter.

Bucky knew how to take care of his wounds. He was more than capable of tending to his own injuries, but he so preferred the way your hands would cup the undersides of his as you’d closely inspect the damage, how you’d run the tips of your fingers over the half-healed scars with a delicacy he hadn’t known in years, how you’d mutter sweetly under your breath about how stupid he’d been.

He’d flash you a smile until the concern and the frustration slowly drained away with every passing glance and you were only left with a grin of your own and a slight nervous laugh as you’d swat at his shoulder in an effort make him stop looking at you like you were hanging the damn stars in the sky and not just twisting a cloth bandage around his broken knuckles.

If that was what it took for you to hold his hands in your own, to feel you so close, to have any excuse just to be near you like this, he’d beat his fists to a damn wall.

The light pink scarring on his hands were taking longer than normal to heal and maybe if he wasn’t blatantly disregarding your instructions to change the bandages frequently and apply the anti-bacterial cream like he usually did, he would have been good as new a week or so earlier.

There was just something about you going out of your way to take care of him that pushed away any regard for himself out the window. He’d happily deal with a slight stinging and soreness a little longer if it meant you being that close to him again.

Because the thing was, his time was limited with you.

It was easy to forget that he wasn’t actually James Karpov, that this wasn’t his life, but he was damn good at his job and he had been spending months gathering evidence behind the scenes and, well, Fury was impressed.

It was a rarity within the Bureau to see the Director crack a smile, but when Bucky handed him the dozens of scanned photocopies of files he’d made from Rumlow’s office, the left corner of his mouth twitched. Thanks to the duplicate key Sam provided, Bucky was able to obtain years’ worth of back channeled shipment logs and crew listings undetected. It was the most they’d had on Hydra since their inception in the 1940’s.

But it was the intel _you_ unknowingly provided that helped to piece the evidence together into a cohesive picture, strung together with pretty red string. 

Bucky didn’t have to purposefully pry with you or word his questions with a precision that required Natasha and Steve’s help to develop weeks ahead of time like he’d done in previous assignments. No– you’d become so comfortable with him on Sunday afternoons and late nights curled up in the library that you willingly offered details on your husband without provocation.

Never direct, because you didn’t like talking about your husband much – _especially with Bucky_ – but you’d roll your eyes and tell him how Rumlow was coercing you into attending an expensive dinner with the Mayor on Thursday. You told him about how your husband slammed the door coming home late on a Tuesday night and Bucky was able to connect that to the missing crate from the Cerberus shipment from the logs he’d scanned. You’d smile when Bucky snuck his way into the library with carefully steps and slid between the crack in the door, only to tell him Rumlow’s been out on business all day and he wasn’t expected to be home until the morning.

It wasn’t enough to bring him to trial, but it was progress. Fury wasn’t taking any chances when it came to Rumlow’s elite defense team so everything they obtained on the guy had to be concrete, had to be overwhelming and eliminate any traces of doubt.

It meant Bucky would continue under the name James Karpov for a little while longer, and though he’d never tell the Director, it was a relief. It meant more time with you, uninterrupted, untouched by his lies and manipulation. He’d hold onto it as long as he could, because the uncertainty of how you’d handle his deceit when this was over was starting to eat at him.

***

With a heavy sigh, Bucky glanced around the layout of the Lernaean, Hydra’s club that doubled as a front for their shady underground criminal enterprise.

It was loud, the bass of the speakers blaring into his ear and pounding deep into his chest, as neon lights flashed above the dance floor. Bucky wondered if it just might be worse than standing quietly in the corner of Rumlow’s kitchen as he bragged about his latest feminine conquest. 

This was part of the job, though. He’d caught sight of two college aged kids carrying out a drug deal in the back corner of the club, not being as subtle as they thought they were as the flash of bright red powder caught his eye.

Cerberus wasn’t ready for market. It was killing users at a far higher rate than it was keeping them addicted, but it was still managing to get on the streets. Bucky had pushed past one of them, swiped the drug from their pocket without them noticing and emptied it into the dirt outside.

By the end of his shift, Bucky was almost certain he was going to have a raging headache by the morning. He started to make his way to the exit when he felt a vibration coming from his back pocket. Narrowing his eyes, knowing only a few people could have this number, he pulled the phone from his pocket. His team knew better than to reach out to him unexpectedly, but when your name flashed on the screen, the panic still caught him off guard.

Bucky pushed his way out of the club to the back-alley exit, shoving aside intoxicated twenty-somethings and high school kids who never should have been allowed inside, and the rush of fresh air hit him like a wall. Glancing down the street to find no one in sight, he brought the phone to his ear, heart pounding.

“Y/n?”

There was a gasp on the other end, like you thought he might not answer. “James?”

Your voice broke as you said his name. A sniffle. Then, a sharp intake of breath that sounded near painful.

_Jesus. You were crying._

“Are you okay? What happened?” His voice was firmer than he ever meant to be with you, but the sound of your voice twisted and aching and laced with fresh tears was enough to rip straight through him. He shoved his free hand into his pocket in search of his keys, warm metal to the tips of his fingers. “Y/n, talk to me. Where are you?”

You didn’t respond but he could hear you trying to muffle the sob that collapsed into your lungs. When you tried to answer his question, he could only barely make out what you were saying through the faint gasps for breath and the gut-wrenching cries stealing your voice. Something about Rumlow, maybe Peter, but he couldn’t be sure.

“I’m on my way, alright?” Bucky said as calm as he could manage despite the rage boiling in his veins. He didn’t even know what Rumlow had done but he was ready to kill him. “Where’s–”

“Not here,” you mumbled before he could ask where your husband was.

His chest was tight. It was on fire. “You in the library?”

You hummed a response.

“Give me ten minutes, okay? I’m on my way.”

You didn’t say anything, but he stayed on the line with you.

As he jumped into his car and threw it into reverse.

As he drove twenty over the speed limit through back country roads, swerving around traffic, blowing past stop signs.

As he raced up the driveway as fast as his legs would carry him and through the front door.

Just listening to your breathing through the crackling tone of the speaker, your muffled attempts to silence the tears before they choked you, the sniffles as you brushed your hand over your nose.

It tore Bucky apart.

***

**T W O H O U R S E A R L I E R**

You were only a few pages to the end of _The Handmaid’s Tale_ when the doorbell rang. It was an unfamiliar sound, a high-pitched tone echoing up into the atrium and spilling into the hallways. And perhaps, for a moment, it didn’t seem so odd, because what would be so surprising about someone stopping by for a visit or a neighborhood kid selling cookies or a UPS driving dropping off a package or a canvasser for a local politician running for office?

But then you realized who you were. And who you lived with.

You didn’t get visitors. Your home was not one that people just came up to the front door. There were gates and security guards and there wasn’t a single neighbor for miles.

The doorbell didn’t just… _ring._

Slowly, you set your book down, binding open and page saved by the surface of the coffee table, as you stood to your feet. You made your way out of the library and down the hall, cautious steps carrying you. It rang out again and your pace increased. 

By the time the bell rang for a third time, you were at the front door, staring at it like it was something out of the twilight zone. Brock’s men had never been the type to wait for permission before entering your home. They learned well from their leader, you supposed. They didn’t carry the kind of patience or human decency to seek your consent.

Then, a rushed knocking broke out on the other side of the door and it startled you enough to fall back a few paces in shock. You huffed a fallen hair from your eyes, pushing aside the anxiety churning in your stomach and reached for the knob.

The door only opened a sliver, a short beam of sunlight peering into the room before a figure shoved their way inside and left you stumbling away from the frame, knob still clenched tight in your hand.

“I thought you’d never answer!”

Peter pushed his way past you and your eyes shot wide at the sight of him; ruffled hair, rosy cheeks, the new jacket you’d bought him bunched up by his collar, _in your home_ … the home of _your husband,_ of _Hydra_.

Peter was grinning ear to ear, taking in the decorations and the extravagance of the mansion as he shrugged off his coat. The entirety of his apartment in Queens could have fit within the living room alone and Peter was looking around as if it was the Taj Mahal, picking up various expensive vases and memorabilia, inspecting it before setting it back down. A circle of dust sat under the slight disparity of where he placed them back on the surfaces. They hadn’t been moved in years.

“Peter,” you choked out, throat dry, “what are you doing here?”

“It’s been years since I’ve been to visit you, Y/n! It’s almost like you’re purposefully keeping me away from this place,” he teased, laughing and smiling because Peter never expected anything but the best of you. It never once crossed his mind that you would be lying to him about who Brock really was, what he’s done, and how your marriage had become a publicity stunt, a political move to obtain your inheritance.

He never considered the truth behind his lighthearted joke.

“Peter,” you urged again, tense, teeth gritted, _“why are you here?”_

“Brock invited me,” he replied casually over his shoulder and your whole body tensed up. Peter picked up a glass cigar tray Brock received as a gift from the Mayor last year, looking it over with pursed lips and a genuine fascination before he placed it back on the end table.

Meanwhile, your hand was still gripped to the doorknob and you were sure your fingers were locked in place, the metal warping under your hold. You might break the whole damn door from its hinges.

Peter turned to you with a raised eyebrow. “Did he not tell you?”

You tried to part your lips to tell him _‘no,’_ that Brock invited him for a reason and springing it on you last minute like this couldn’t mean anything good. You wanted to warn him to leave before it was too late, before Brock dragged him into this world of darkness and monsters but there wasn’t a chance before you heard heavy footsteps echoing down the hall and into the living room.

“There you are, Parker!”

Hairs raised on your neck, on your arms, as you turned to find Brock walking into the room with a smile on his face you hadn’t seen in months, not since he’d been informed of the profit margins Cerberus was expected to generate. It was unsettling, foreign, and you felt bile rising in your stomach as he crossed the room and pulled Peter in for a hug.

“It’s been years,” Brock said, eyeing you as his smile turned to something colder, a dark expression in his eyes, before he slid the mask back on and faced Peter. “Feels like Y/n’s been hoarding you all to herself, doesn’t it?”

Peter laughed a bit, though you could tell it was forced. He didn’t understand the implication, but he was a smart kid. “Yeah, seems like it.”

“Anyway, I’m glad you’ve finally made the trip out to our home. We certainly have enough space,” Brock said, gesturing to the living room.

With a hand on Peter’s back, he led him further inside the house, pushing him along and you couldn’t move. It felt like Brock was leading him to a pit in the backyard only to hand him a shovel. You wanted to scream.

“Been trying to get out here for a while,” Peter replied. “Always told Y/n I could come to her, too, but she insists on meeting me in Queens.”

Brock shook his head, a tsk on his tongue. “Every Sunday, too? She’s always been a selfless one, hasn’t she?”

Your heart was in your throat, stomach plummeting as Peter only nodded, smiling back at you. He narrowed his eyes though, smile fading as he noticed your hands clenched at your sides, nails puncturing into your palms as released your grip from the doorknob, teeth grinding, breath uneven. Something was wrong, but he didn’t know what.

Peter was perceptive, but you’d learned how to hide things from him over the years. It wasn’t as easy when the very man you’d been protecting him from for years had his hand on Peter’s shoulder and a look in his eye that left you feeling sick to your stomach. You couldn’t hold the same composure when your nightmare was playing out in front of you.

What scared you the most was you didn’t even know how Brock found out about your Sunday trips to see Peter or when he learned about them. It wouldn’t be outside of his reach to hire someone to follow you. Maybe someone overheard you talking to him on the phone the night before or maybe one of the dozens of drivers you rotated through let it slip.

It didn’t matter, because now he knew. Now, Peter was in your home and Brock had an arm over his shoulders, and he was planning something.

You didn’t dare let yourself wonder if he knew about the time you’d spent with James, too.

“Dinner should be ready in a few,” Brock said, gesturing to the kitchen. “I hope you’re hungry for spaghetti and meatballs.”

“Always,” Peter chimed back, though he glanced over at you, still uncertain.

You only nodded at him, encouraging him forward because what else was there to do?

You followed them into the kitchen as you were met with a sudden influx of oregano and basil and homemade tomato sauce that looked to be on the stove for hours. Peter asked Brock if he’d made it himself and you scoffed. Brock shot you a glare before confirming that, yes, he found the time to cook on occasion, though you knew for a fact that he’d never once laid a hand on that stove. You could spot Clara’s apron sticking out of the drawer where she’d put it away hastily.

“Take a seat,” Brock said, pulling out a chair for Peter across the table from his usual spot.

You slid in next to Peter, despite your place setting sitting on the right of Brock. You grabbed the dish and utensils from across the table and dragged them to you, staring at Brock with a glare that could have burned holes into his head.

“Smells amazing,” Peter commented. He was always a polite kid. He turned to you again because your silence was uncharacteristic and he wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. Your heart clenched when you realized he was checking on you; this protective habit the two of you had for each other.

You pushed out a smile, forced, and it didn’t come near your eyes but it was enough to put him at ease for a moment longer.

The dinner passed by in agonizing pace. After Brock served the table, something he’d never once done before, he and Peter ate nearly two full servings before you managed to take in a few bites. Even the bites you could stand to swallow were impossibly small and despite the intoxicating fragrance of Italian kitchens, you tasted bile on your tongue with every bite.

Brock and Peter were laughing about something you couldn’t quite hear. Brock swatted Peter’s arm from across the table like they were old friends, as if there hadn’t been three years of dead silence between them. It was only after the boys’ plates were clean and you snuck to the counter to dispose of the rest of your meal in Tupperware you didn’t expect to return to later, that Brock focused in on what he’d been planning for the entire evening.

“So, Pete,” Brock started, leaning back into his chair with a glass of red wine in his hand. He downed it in one gulp. “How have things been with you and May down in Queens? You managing alright?”

“ _Brock,_ ” you warned but he waved you off. Peter tapped your forearm with a soft smile as you sat back into your seat.

“No, it’s alright,” he told you before turning to Brock. “It’s been okay. Tougher since we lost Uncle Ben because Aunt May’s been picking up extra shifts and I… I do what I can. Y/n helps out a lot. More than she should.”

Peter glances over at you nervously, like he was unsure if he should have mentioned that last part, about how you spend money to buy him his books and new coats and sneakers and pay for every Sunday outing together, but that’s not what you’re worried about.

“She’s a generous one, isn’t she?” Brock said, smile on his face though his teeth were clenched behind it. He leaned forward, setting the empty glass on the table and your heart skipped a beat. You’ve seen him do that before – in business meetings when he went in for the kill.

You tried to say something, but Brock was too fast for that and you were paralyzed.

“How would you like to make five-hundred a week?”

Peter’s eyes bolted wide, jaw dropping, and you swore, you might have cracked the glass in your hand, the wine nearly spilling up over the top.

“Brock, stop.” Your voice was too quiet, too tense. You didn’t even know if he heard you.

“Wow, that’s—uh, wow,” Peter stumbled around his words. He raked his fingers through his hair nervously. “What would I be doing?”

Brock shrugged, as if he hadn’t meticulously planned this. “I have some packages I need delivered on your side of town and who better to navigate the area than a local? My only condition is that you’re discrete and you leave the packages as is. What’s inside is confidential.”

 _“Brock,”_ you tried again, but paid you no mind. You dug your nails into your thigh.

“And this is for the club?” Peter asked.

Brock nodded. “What do you say, kid? You want to step up around the house? I’m sure it would take a lot of pressure off your aunt’s shoulders. I know you want that, don’t you?”

In the shared look between your cousin, who was more like a brother than you ever knew, and the man who had become the source of every demon in your life, you found your voice again.

“ _Absolutely not.”_

Peter turned to you, shocked. “What! Come on, Y/n. You know how much I’ve been wanting to help Aunt May with the bills and –”

“I’ll help her,” you offered tensely, ignoring Brock’s comment under his breath claiming it was _his money_ you were handing over anyway. Peter started to object and you tried again, “I’ll ask the Marselli’s or Neftali down at Café Ramos if they need help. We’ll find you a job if you want one, Peter. Not this, okay? We’ll find something else.”

“Not for five-hundred a week on a high schooler’s schedule,” Peter argued. He was calm in his wording, gentle, because while he didn’t understand the reason behind your objections, he knew you were upset and he never wanted to hurt you.

At a loss, you turned to your husband. He was sprawled out over the chair next to him, arm laying across the back, legs crossed. He was chewing on the ice from his glass. The left side of his mouth curved knowingly and it made your stomach ache.

“Brock,” you reasoned, _begged_ , “please. Can we just talk for a second?”

There was a short moment of silence and for a second, you though he might have an ounce of the compassion he’d shown in the two years you’d been together before he pulled the carpet out from under you. He’d been kind then. You’d loved him once. You always wondered if it was all an act or if maybe, somewhere, there was a piece of him that wasn’t as cruel as you imagined.

But instead, a smirk peered up on his lips as he settled back into his chair. “I think Peter is more than capable of making his own decisions, don’t you?”

You bit down hard on your cheek, enough to taste the cooper of blood pooling in your mouth. Swallowing it back, you pushed your chair out from the table. Tears were burning in your eyes and you didn’t dare let Peter see.

You excused yourself, quickly darting out of the room and you could vaguely hear Peter calling your name and Brock’s voice telling him, “don’t worry about her, champ. She’s always had a flair for the dramatic.”

There was no relief in the living room. The air was too hot, too stuffy and you were crawling in your skin. You knew where you needed to go, the heaviness of your phone in your pocket a reminder of exactly who you wanted to see, but you wouldn’t abandon Peter; not alone with Brock.

Brushing the tears from your eyes and exhaling a heavy breath, you started to make your way back to the kitchen when the door suddenly swung open. Peter bounded towards you and hugged you tightly.

“Please don’t be angry,” he mumbled into the shoulder of your sweater. “You know how much I want to help Aunt May. This is how I can do it. It’s just delivering some packages a few times a week. We’ll still have our Sundays.”

_Is that why he thought you were upset?_

Maybe that’s what Brock told him, though you wondered why he bothered keeping Peter in the dark at all about what he’ll be tasked with delivering. There was no convincing Peter out of this and you knew that before Brock had even offered him the job. He was young, incredibly selfless and so willing to do whatever it took to care for the ones he loved that he’d overlook dangerous warning signs without realizing it.

There was nothing you could do.

“Okay,” you conceded, patting his head as he pulled away. It drew a smile back to his face, and for that, at least, you were grateful. “Text me when you get home, alright?”

“You got it,” Peter nodded. He turned back to Brock. “Thanks again, man! I’ll see you next week?”

“I’ll be in touch,” Brock confirmed, leading Peter to the door and opening it for him. Peter turned around and gave a final wave before he jogged out into the darkness, coat bundled up and hands shoved in his pockets.

You didn’t waste a second the very moment the door closed.

“What _the hell_ is wrong with you!” you cried out, slamming your hand against the cadenza and causing several priceless gifts from neighboring crime families to tremor for a moment before they stilled again. Your chest was panting, air hot in your lungs. “I asked _one thing_ of you, Brock. _One thing!_ Keep my family the hell away from your shit!”

Brock stood by the door, unfazed by your sudden outburst and the level at which you were yelling. It wasn’t often you’d confront him like this, preferring passive aggressive taunts and blatant avoidance, so this was something new. A challenge. Brock liked challenges.

“Things have changed since then, baby,” he replied with a shrug.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you huffed, arms folding over your chest as you watched him pace further into the room and pour himself a glass of whiskey.

“You used to be quieter, you know that?” he said, swirling the amber liquid and holding it up to the light before bringing the glass to his lips. You raised an eyebrow, the lingering silence passing over while he savored the burn of the alcohol. He sighed, setting the glass back down. “Something’s different.”

“That doesn’t mean you can use my sixteen-year-old cousin as a bargaining chip!” you yelled, tears stinging in your eyes and you no longer cared if he saw you cry. “He’s a kid, Brock! You’re—you’re going to get him killed running product between the Hydra and Asgardian border!”

“Maybe,” he said and you sucked in a gasp that tore through you like shards of broken glass, “but you sure as hell aren’t going anywhere as long as he’s a part of this.”

 _“What?”_ you shook your head, pinching at the bridge of your nose. “You’ve already got me here under threat of blackmail. I didn’t think _I’d_ have to remind you of that. Besides, why would you even care whether I’m here or not? You already have my father’s money. You have no use for me.”

“That’s not true, baby,” Brock cooed, swiftly crossing the room and reaching out to run a hand up your arm but you pulled away, flinching at his touch. He didn’t seem to like that because when he tried again, he wasn’t as gentle in his movement and he grabbed a firm hold of your wrist and yanked you tight to his chest, caging you and he pressed your back against him, wrapping his forearms around your waist.

“ _Let me go,_ ” you warned, but he ignored you.

“A powerful man needs his queen; a beautiful woman on his arm and a body to warm his bed,” he said as he squeezed you tighter, enough to make it hard to breath. His grip on your wrist started to ache. “Not everyone is from the underworld like I am, baby. Sometimes a man in a suit needs to be reeled in with the promise of a legitimate _lucrative_ business, a family man, and a pretty lady. The American dream. I can’t do that without you.”

You scoffed, trying to wiggle out of his hold but he kept you still, trapped in the arms of a snake. “I’m sure you could manage.”

“Don’t be so ungrateful, baby,” he whispered in your ear, breath hot and sticky against your neck. He released you then and you shoved your way out of him arms, stumbling forward a few paces. You turned back to him with a hardened glare over your features, baring teeth and he said, “don’t I provide you with a comfortable life? I give you the world, Y/n! What more could you possibly want?”

You could think of a few things.

Your job back at Columbia with the friends you lost. The freedom to walk down the street without someone noticing you, connecting you to _him_ and running off in fear or blatantly gossiping about you as you walked past. A blue-eyed man with a kinder smile than you’d known in years.

You’d burn this house and your father’s money to the ground if you could have even an ounce of that life.

Brock straightened his back, grabbing his coat from the rack and shrugged it over his shoulders. “You worry too much. The kid will be fine. As long as he makes his deliveries on time and doesn’t look in the boxes, there’s no reason why anything should have to happen to him.”

Your breath caught in your throat, heart pounding as your husband paid you no attention. He’d threatened Peter without so much as a look in your direction, as casually as anyone would have mentioned there was something missing on the grocery list or reminding themselves to check in with their mother after work. So simple.

He’d done it a thousand times before but it was never against someone you knew, someone you loved.

The anger was quickly swept away by fear, by panic, and you stepped forward under shaking legs. “Brock, wait, please—”

There was no reasoning with him. It was already done, but it didn’t stop you from trying, from _begging._

“I have a business meeting downtown. Don’t wait up for me,” Brock said sharply, ignoring your pleas. He closed the door behind him without another word and you filched at the impact. The house was incredibly quiet suddenly, so when your phone buzzed in your pocket, it startled you.

 **Just got home,** it read. **Aunt May’s got freshly baked cookies again so I’ll save you a few for next Sunday in case you’re still upset with me. You know I gotta do what I can to help around here. It’ll be fine, Y/n. I promise. Love you.**

He’d sent an image along with the text; a selfie of him leaning over the table filled with chocolate chip cookies cooling from the oven with a massive smile on his face and a thumbs up. You could vaguely make out Aunt May’s hand in the background trying to swat him away and suddenly your vision was blurring. It was hard to see. Despite the smile on your face, there were tears in your eyes and your heart was racing and suddenly, your legs felt weak, your head too dizzy and you stumbled down the hall to one the place you felt safe.

You nearly collapsed halfway down the hall when your breath was coming in too fast and the painting on the wall were starting to duplicate and sway. You gripped onto the door knob and threw yourself into the library, holding on to any spare surface you could find until you made it to the couch.

Your breaths were coming in too fast, tears choking you, and with shaking hands, you dialed the number of the one person— _the only person_ — that could take this all away.

Consequences be damned. Rules out of the window.

The phone rang a few times before he answered, your name sweet like honey on his voice, though he was surprised, and you could hardly speak. You muttered out his name and before you knew it, he was on his way to you. No hesitation.

You listened to his breathing on the other end of the phone, his gentle reminders that he was still there, asking for you to hold on a little longer, updates on where he was at. He was worried, that much you could tell from his voice and you could hear the engine of his car roaring as he raced down the street.

Everything was numb.

The front door swung open loud enough for it to echo down the halls. It didn’t faze you. Nothing did anymore.

***

Bucky sprinted down the hall. His heart was in his stomach as he skidded in front of the library. He paused for a second, trying to compose himself before he pushed open the door; try to take a deep breath or still the rushing pace of his frantically beating heart, but when he heard the soft sounds of you sniffling on the other side, he quickly turned the knob and shouldered his way inside.

You were sitting on the edge of the couch, stiff as a board, staring off into the aisles of books. You didn’t even look at him as he stepped closer, too caught up in your trance. Bucky swallowed nervously as he made his way to you.

Wincing with every creak of the floor boards under his steps, he knelt down in front of you, and even then, it was like you were staring right through him. Your eyes were red and puffy, lips parted slightly because it was impossible to breathe through your nose, a glaze over you, and your hands clenching and unclenching at the cushions beneath you.

“Y/n?” he called softly but there was no response.

Still, nothing. It was like you didn’t recognize him at all.

His eyes trailed lower and it was then he noticed the red mark on your wrist; slowly beginning to fade to its natural color, but visible enough that he could make out the shape of a handprint etched around your arm in its grip. Bucky clenched his jaw, exhaling a tense breath his nose and doing his best to hide the rush of adrenaline and anger boiling up into his chest.

He tore his eyes away from the mark and searched for your eyes again, though they remained unfocused.

“Y/n, I’m here,” he tried again, voice a little louder now as he inched closer on his knees. “You’re okay. It’s just me.”

Nothing. Your hands bunched against the seams of the couch cushions until your fingers started to shake.

Bucky sighed as he watched you wrestle in the trance. Slowly, he brought his hands up to sit upon yours, hoping to still the constant ebb and flow of tension there. The touch of it seemed to ignite something in you because the very second his hands laid upon yours, covering the entirety and curling his fingers underneath, you gasped; broken and shaky on the sharp inhale.

Blinking a few times, focusing, and then, when you met his eye, he swore the world might have stopped spinning.

“James?”

Your voice broke on his name, tears quickly returning and he only nodded. Before they could consume you whole again, he pushed himself up onto the couch beside you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and tugging you gently back to him so you weren’t so stiff on the edge of the couch. You fell into him easily.

“I’m here. I’m here,” he soothed, holding you as close as he could manage, your weight resting to his chest, warm to the touch. You sighed into him, sinking further in, curling into the crook of his side.

“Are you hurt? What happened?” Bucky asked hastily, trying to conceal the panic in his voice. He ran his hands along your arms like he was trying to warm you; swift motions along goose bumped skin. He didn’t know why he was doing that because it was warm enough in the room but it had been a long time since Bucky Barnes felt helpless, and you seemed to ease into it, so he didn’t stop.

“He knows,” you choked out and Bucky froze instantly, convinced for a moment that Rumlow knew he’d been spending every Sunday with you for months and sitting beside you in your library for hours on end, or that he might know his real name and what he was really doing here, who he really worked for. It didn’t slip his notice that the concern for his cover came second.

You cleared your throat, sniffling back tears as you turned to him, eyed red and glassy. “Peter was _here_ , James. Brock—he invited him over and I—I don’t know how he found out that I’ve been seeing him every week but _he did_ , and he convinced him to do some kind of job for him but– but he’s only _sixteen_ , James, _he’s sixteen_ and Brock’s going to get him killed and he has no idea what he’s wrapped up in and—”

“Whoa, hold on,” Bucky cooed, shushing you before your heart started to kick up too fast because your breathing was already heaving in your chest, your words tumbling out faster than you could carry them. You pressed your lips together, taking in a deep breath as Bucky instructed you, guiding it along with a gentle hand on your back.

“Start from the beginning.”

And so you did.

You told him about how you’d found Peter on your doorstep and how you’d been blindsided by your husband inviting him over for dinner. You told him about how Rumlow had put on a charming face and played house for a few hours before he brought up the real reason he’d asked your cousin over to begin with. You told him how you felt your chest tearing open at the table as Rumlow offered this job to Peter, transporting products around Queens on the border of The Asgardians’ territory and how Peter was none the wiser to the illegality of what he agreed to.

“I couldn’t tell him what he was signing on for,” you tried to say in defense, but Bucky understood. He knew the law well enough for that.

“The less he knows, the better,” he agreed. Plausible deniability. It wouldn’t go far but it would be enough to separate him from the other dealers in Hydra’s payroll.

There was a silence for a moment, lingering like thick, uneasy molasses in the air. You closed your eyes, turning away from Bucky.

“He did it to keep me compliant, to keep me trapped here,” you said softly, almost too quiet to hear if he hadn’t been paying such close attention to you.

Bucky had his suspicions, knew that your marriage to Rumlow was essentially a political move, that you’d become collateral in his rise to power, but it was something else entirely when it was coming from you. You didn’t seem surprised, but it didn’t take the hurt out of your words, the grief, the anger.

“I won’t let anything happen to Peter, you hear me?” Bucky said slowly, determined.

A wave of relief, awe, something like adoration filled your eyes and you started to cry again. Throwing yourself back into his arms, clenching at his shirt, Bucky wrapped his arms impossibly tight around your waist and you only seemed to pull yourself closer.

“I’m scared for him,” you cried, and Bucky ran his fingers over your back in soft soothing motions.

“I know,” he whispered. “Nothing is going happen to him, alright? I’ll make sure of it.” He paused, a slight breath before, “do you trust me?”

You stilled, pushing back away from his chest for a moment, just enough so you could meet his eye. Despite the redness, the glisten of tears on your cheeks, his heart still managed to thump a little louder as you reached out and brushed your hand along the side of his face. Fingers tracing over stubble and his wondered if you could hear how loud his heart was racing.

He’d never been this close to you before. Never held you in his arms and he wished desperately that it was under different circumstances but here he was, and here you were, and you fit against him perfectly.

“I’d trust you with my life,” you finally replied, the slightest semblance of a smile pushing at the edges of your lips though it didn’t make it very far. “I trust you with his, too.”

Bucky nodded and you fell back against him, curling up into his side. He tried not to think of all the ways he was lying to you, how little you really knew about him, and hoped that your trust was enough. For now, at least.

“Will you stay for a while?” you asked, voice small like a child’s, like you were nervous he might turn you down, like you didn’t know he thought you hung the moon and the stars and breathed life into his beating heart.

“Of course,” was all he said back because he didn’t trust himself to say much else.

He propped his leg up on the coffee table, grabbed a book off the surface and flipped it open to the page you were on and started reading quietly. You squeezed him tighter at that, nestling in against his chest as the soft vibrations of his voice soothed away the lingering anger and fear your husband had instilled in you.

Lying beside you. A hand tracing delicate patterns on his chest as your eyes fluttered closed. His alternating between flipping the next page and resting gently on the mid of your back, holding you to him just enough to feel the faint thump of your heartbeat in every breath.

He didn’t know if he’d ever move again.


	8. Seven

Things between you and Bucky were different after that night. 

Neither one of you able to admit it aloud, but in the weeks since, he’d started to sit flush beside you on the couch when you’d hand him another one of your books. He started to walk a little closer to you on Sunday afternoons enough that your knuckles would brush one another and a blush would fill your cheeks. You started to text him when he wasn’t around, teasing jokes about how long it was taking him to get through the next installment of the Harry Potter series and when he was going to agree to let you show him your favorite loose leaf tea shop in Chinatown. 

Sometimes, you’d ask more serious questions about if he was safe on the nights Rumlow sent him off to do his bidding and you’d started to check in on him after he’d leave your home in the late hours of the night. Bucky didn’t necessarily like that you worried, but he couldn’t help the churn in the stomach at the thought of your nose scrunched up, brow furrowed into those lines upon your forehead he adored. 

But mostly, _reluctantly_ , you’d ask how Peter was handling the new job. 

It was completely off the books as far as his team was concerned, but he was tailing Peter through Queens on nearly every run. He’d keep you on the line if he was able, distracting you with stories about Steve when he was a kid and how Sam had tripped and fell in front of the designer wedding dress shop downtown, leaving dozens of women laughing at his expense from the windows. 

He could hear the smile in your voice, but you were still tense until the moment he confirmed that Peter dropped off the package and was on his way home. There had been a few occasions he’d purposely dart into the streets and bump into Peter when he noticed wondering eyes of an Asgardian crewman following him down the street and he’d act surprised to see him. 

Peter seemed to like running into James Karpov, at least. He always smiled twice as wide, telling him what a strange coincidence it was, but there was something in his eye, like he knew more than he let on. Bucky didn’t tell you that part. 

It never got easier for you, knowing that Brock had thrown Peter into shark infested waters, believing he was standing safe in the shallow end of an in-ground pool, but Bucky did his best to reassure you. 

Getting you away from the house on Sundays proved to be the most help; distracting you with walks by the Brooklyn bridge, visiting the black cat in your favorite bodega sub shop in Queens, sitting by the gardens and drinking warm tea and coffee from Café Ramos while the owner’s son caught you up to speed on how rehearsals were going down at his high school’s production of West Side Story. 

Bucky didn’t mind what you did together, as long as he could manage to bring a smile back to your face. 

The first time he asked Peter to stick around on your Sunday afternoons, you’d turned to him in surprise, reached for his hand instinctively, squeezed it for a second in appreciation. A lifetime sat in the span of only a few seconds as you stared at him, a soft smile on your face, a kind of adoration in your eyes, and his hand with lit ablaze at the touch of you. 

His cheeks were still burning just thinking of it.

***

Bucky stood in the corner of the kitchen, observing quietly as Rumlow conversed with a tall, slender man at the table dressed in an expensive navy-blue suit. They spoke quietly, huddled over paperwork and black coffees. Every now and then, Rumlow would call for Bucky and ask his opinion on changing the imports of Cerberus to new docks within the city, and he would respond shortly, as if the information didn’t faze him at all. 

Add it to the list. 

Another piece of evidence, asshole. 

Rumlow and the man in the suit were nearly wrapped up when suddenly, the door to the kitchen swung open and you came strolling through. 

Hair braided down the back of your head and carrying down over your shoulder, tight compression leggings and a form fitting jacket, water bottle in hand and a slight glisten of sweat over your forehead, you paid no mind to your husband and his guest, though your eyes did flicker over to Bucky and that gentle, subtle smile pushed at your lips for only a second before you turned away. 

“Baby? What are you doing?” Rumlow called to you and Bucky watched as your shoulders tensed. Your back was to him while you filled up your water bottle and brushed the sweat from your hairline. 

Rumlow stood and crossed the room to you, running his hand from the base of your neck down your spine and you swerved out of his touch. He blew out a heavy exhale through his nose, teeth clenched as he shot back a glance at his guest to make sure he hadn’t witnessed your obvious rejection of him. 

“Councilman Ward invited us to the city’s annual fundraising gala,” he said to you, though the tone of his voice was tense, almost threatening. He gestured to the man in the suit sitting at the table. Ward offered you a wave and a cheesy political smile but you remained stoic. 

“We’ll be going tonight,” Rumlow ordered. “Be ready by nine.”

You pursed your lips, shifting in your stance as your arms came up to fold over your chest. Eyes darted over at Ward though your expression was cold, your mouth curving into a frown before you turned back to your husband. 

“I don’t have a dress.”

Bucky bit down on his lip to keep from chuckling. Your defiance against Rumlow was one of the things he enjoyed most about you; the way you so intricately taunted him with a smile that could fool just about anyone and played him like a fiddle whenever someone he wanted to impress was in the room. He cared more about optics than anything else.

“You have dozens of dresses, baby,” Rumlow shot back; a forced smile to match yours and his hands were grinding into fists. 

“Nothing that will fit, _babe_.” 

Bucky took a step closer, sensing the tension between you though he knew Rumlow would never escalate the power struggle with his wife in front of the city councilman he clearly had in his pocket. He had already offered to take on the slack in security Rumlow required for the gala that night, hoping it might give him a chance to observe Rumlow amongst the elite of New York and determine who he was paying off.

Though, if he was honest, he volunteered so you wouldn’t be so alone. 

“Karpov!” Rumlow barked, not taking his eyes off of you for a second. “Take my wife to find something to wear tonight. Only the best for my angel.”

You rolled your eyes, arms crossed over your chest and Rumlow leaned forward to kiss you but you side stepped away, leaving his lips to fall to your cheek. He pulled back, surprised and with an unreadable expression, but he slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out a dark grey, metallic card. He handed it to Bucky. 

“Whatever she wants,” Rumlow sneered, “within reason.”

Bucky nodded, sliding the card into his jacket pocket. “Yes, sir.”

You had already left the room by the time Bucky turned to follow you, the kitchen door swing between the hinges. With a final nod to Rumlow, he made his way into the living to find you were half way up the stairs, presumably to change from your running clothes. 

He flicked the card between his fingers, noticing the numbers listed on the side and took a picture of both sides before sending the images to Nat. Might be useful in tracing accounts. She’d get a laugh out of how easy Rumlow was making this on her. 

Only a few minutes later, you descended down the stairs in light wash jeans and a faded concert t-shirt you must have bought years ago because the ends were fraying and there was a slight hole in the shoulder. 

Bucky smiled, parting his lips to say something charming or witty or whatever came out of his mouth first, but you pushed right past him and out into the driveway without a word. It was unlike you to be so cold with him and he shoved aside the churn in his stomach to follow you. 

“You alright?” Bucky asked as he closed the front door behind him. You were already halfway to the car. 

“Don’t want to go to this stupid gala,” you grumbled. “Just another excuse to wear a dress worth twice a decent paycheck so my husband can flaunt me around on his arm for the first ten minutes and then toss me aside the entire goddamn night because he has _‘business’_ to take care of!”

You shook your head, panting and chewing on your lower lip as Bucky unlocked the car door for you. You slid inside and he closed the door behind you before making his way over to the driver’s seat. He paused for a moment, giving you a second to breathe before he opened his side door and sat behind the wheel.

It was quiet for a moment as he turned on the ignition and the car roared to life. It had been a while since he’d driven anything this nice; probably since the assignment out in Vegas when his cover was some rich kid’s son. The buzz of the engine vibrated under his fingertips as he settled on the wheel before it lulled out to a near silence. 

He shifted the car into reverse and press a hand to the headrest of your seat as he turned to look out the back window. He could feel your eyes on him, like you were trying to find the right moment to speak, and he gave you your time. He had no intentions of pressing you beyond what you were comfortable with. 

It only took until he turned off the end of the long, twisting driveway secluding the home behind the woods, before you spoke up. 

“You know he does this every single time.” You sighed, but there was a strain there, like a lump in the back of your throat you couldn’t break. 

“It’s not that I want to spend the evening with him – _I don’t_ – but I hate that he drags me along to these things just to abandon me once he’s made it clear to everyone in the room who I belong to,” you confessed, an ache in your voice. “There’s no need to keep me on his arm after that and no one dares to talk to me because they’re afraid of what he’d do. It’s just… lonely. To be in this massive room filled with people and still be as isolated and alone as I am in this goddamn house.”

Bucky’s hands gripped stiffly to the wheel as he turned onto the freeway. His knuckles were white. His chest tight. He might throw his fist through Rumlow’s face the second he walked back into that mansion and wrap his hands around his neck and squeeze until there was nothing left. 

But he forced out a breath to calm the tension in aching through him instead. 

“You don’t belong to anyone, Y/n,” he said quietly, gently. “Least of all him.”

You scoffed, though your gaze trailed out the side window, like you were having a hard time just looking at him. It wasn’t until Bucky started to notice you digging your nails into your thigh that he realized you were crying.

He tried to ignore the soft bated breaths and the sniffles and the brush of your hand over your cheeks. He imagined for a moment what it would be like to grab your hand and bring it to sit in his own, resting on his thigh, send you that smile that always seemed to make you blush, and tell you this would all be over soon. How he might help you find a way out of this, to take you far away from Rumlow and Hydra, to give you back your life and your choices. He’d tell you that he’d hand over his badge before he let anything happen to you. 

But Bucky did none of those things.

“Would it help if I told you I’ll be there tonight?” he asked quietly, stealing a glance over at you to find you shifting slightly in your seat. You turned away from the window, watching him carefully and he chuckled nervously under your stare, hoping to ease the tension. “Boss thought the extra security was needed, so I volunteered. Figured you might want some decent company after all the times you’ve complained about these things.”

“Really?” you exhaled, a semblance of a smile returning to your face.

Bucky nodded, grinning himself as he gripped onto the steering wheel to keep from reaching out for your hand. The smile started to lift up bright by your eyes and even though there was redness there, it was surrounded by laugh lines and dimples and a beauty he simply couldn’t get his fill of if he tried. 

“We can eat food in the corner and make fun of the guests,” he offered and it was enough to get you laughing. It echoed through the car and you nodded your head quickly. This was the woman he knew. The one he adored. 

“Guess that wouldn’t be a total nightmare,” you teased, the tension falling from your shoulders. 

You leaned forward and turned on the radio, eyeing for his reaction, and when something that made the very edge of his lips curve filtered through the car, you turned up the volume and sat back. 

The soft tones of your humming were all he could focus on. 

***

You’d been here before, that much Bucky was able to tell by the way you lead him down the streets lined with boutiques and jewelry stores he never would have dared to step within a few feet of in his younger years. There was no hesitancy in your stride, swerving in and around pedestrians, crossed the street before the light had even turned red, and took shortcuts down alleyways. You knew exactly where you were going and Bucky followed without question.

You’d spotted the shop you were looking for and Bucky darted forward to grab the door, his hand curling around the cold of the metal as he pulled it open for you. He smiled as you stepped past him with a giggle under your breath, eyes darting down under the heat of his gaze.

The store was filled with bright, vibrant dresses worth more than his apartment in Brooklyn and dispute your reluctance to attend the gala, you were grinning ear to ear. When you turned back to him, nearly glowing as you reached out to squeeze his forearm, Bucky swore for a second his knees might fall weak if it wasn’t for the red headed woman approaching you that suddenly made his blood run cold. 

“Can I help you?” Natasha asked, coming up on your left with a charming kind of grin on her face that was so incredibly unlike her. She wore a gold badge on the top right of her white blouse with her name engraved into the metal and the phrase ‘three years of service’ underneath. She glanced over at Bucky with a wink before she turned back to you. 

“Oh, yes please,” you laughed. “I’ve always been a bit lost in here.”

“Looking for anything specific?”

You glanced around the store, a devious smirk curving up your lips. “Something expensive.”

Nat raised an eyebrow at that. “Big promotion?”

Damn, she was a good liar. 

You shook your head. “Husband’s being an ass. I’d like to make a dent in his account.” 

That got Natasha laughing and Bucky wondered how much of her reaction was forced. She’d said she liked you in one of his first debriefings after she’d started to listen more intricately to the bugs he’d placed in the home. You were intelligent and witty and you didn’t take shit from Rumlow. Natasha admired that.

“Come,” she gestured to the back of the shop, “I’ve got a few in mind.”

You followed Natasha to the back corner of the shop, away from the other costumers, and she grabbed a few dresses from the rack, placing them in a dressing room for you. You tugged at the edge of your t-shirt, swaying on the balls of your feet, as she hustled around the store for a wide variety of dresses for you to try on. You’d certainly been here before, knew the routine, but it didn’t seem to make you feel less intimidated.

“Try the blue on first,” she advised.

Bucky, meanwhile, was shuffling his feet near the front of the store, unsure of what to do. He paced along an aisle of dresses by the window, glancing over the scratchy tool of a massive ballgown in the display, the sequined lined purple mini-dress handing off the wall, and a long, elegant train that could be affixed to a wedding dress it wasn’t such a bright yellow color. 

He paused as he came up to the end of the row, catching his eye on a dress as it hung tucked away between lace overlays and glittered covered fabrics. Pulling it from the rack, he ran his hand over the fabric of a satin, lavender dress, rubbing the material between his fingers. It was the softest thing he’d ever felt, like it had been handmade. So incredibly simple but purposeful and intricate all at once. Curious, he slipped his hand into the inseam in search of the price tag.

“James?” your voice carried through the shop, causing him to pause. He peaked out from behind the rack to find you waving him over with a bright smile on your face. “Come on! I’ll need an opinion.”

Bucky swallowed, pushing the dress back onto the rack and quickly making his way towards you. Along the line of dressing rooms was a two-seater couch sitting flush against the wall. He nodded at you, a tight smile of acknowledgement, as he sat down next to where Natasha was standing in wait.

When you were clear, Bucky swatted Natasha’s arm.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he whispered harshly, but she only shrugged, arms folded over her chest. 

“This is what we do, James,” she said simply. “We keep an eye on you. It’s how you’ve stayed alive all these years. Or did you forget?”

Bucky remembered well, though it didn’t frustrate him any less. 

It wasn’t unusual for the team to show up inconspicuously when he was deep undercover. He’d spotted Steve stationed at various coffee shops wearing baseball caps and reading the paper when he’d been sent on errands for Hydra in the city. Sam was once the valet attendant at a diner in the city Bucky had accompanied Rumlow for security purposes upon meeting with a potential new supplier.

Something was different about this, though. It felt like an intrusion, like a breach of something personal. He tried to push aside the voice reminding him that this was _his_ _job_ , that Natasha was doing as she always did, and it was his own pathetic excuse for a lack of boundaries that got him into this mess in the first place. 

Natasha watched him wearingly, noticing even the subtlest of gestures. She saw the way his eyes lingered on you even after you turned away, how his lips curved up into a smile every time you looked at him, how his cheeks burned a slight shade of pink when you called his name – _his cover’s name –_ that was only half his to begin with. 

It wasn’t the name he wanted you to call him, anyway.

“You’re not on a date, you know,” Natasha said. There was a sadness in her voice, almost apologetic, and Bucky resented it. It made his skin hot and his chest tight. 

“I don’t need you to remind me of that,” he responded shortly, jaw clenched. 

“You sure?”

The curtain pushed open suddenly and you stepped out into the hall dressed in a floor length gown; deep navy blue, strapless to expose your collarbones, and puckering at your waist before extending out into voluminous tussled skirt that reminded Bucky of something out of a fairytale. You certainly looked beautiful enough to be one of the women described in the stories he heard as a child.

You were a little breathless, your hair a little misplaced in the effort of pulling on such a massive amount of fabric, but Bucky didn’t notice that much. He could only focus on the way you were looking at him; that slight pucker of your lips, the dimples in your cheeks, your hands clenching at the dress and lifting it up at the waist and letting it fall delicately back to your sides, amused by the extravagance of the design.

“Well?” you asked nervously, still waiting for his reaction. 

“You look incredible,” Natasha said in her best saleswoman voice, all high pitched and smiling. She wasn’t wrong, but your eyes were focused on Bucky. 

“James? What do you think?”

Bucky cleared his throat. “It’s… um… it’s nice.”

You pursed your lips, sharing a knowing look with Nat before you quickly disappeared behind the curtain again. The red velvet swung shut and he could already hear the zipper and the quick shuffling of fabric. 

“Did I say something wrong?” he asked Natasha and she only chuckled under her breath, shaking her head. 

“She’s not going for _‘nice._ ’”

Bucky shook his head, not quite understanding. “Y/n doesn’t care what Rumlow thinks. She doesn’t even want to go to this thing tonight.”

Natasha smirked, a slight shrug of her shoulders. “I never said it was Rumlow she wanted to impress.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” His voice was like sandpaper. 

“I think you know.”

He wondered if Natasha could hear his heart beat because it was thunderous in his chest. It echoed and pounded and suddenly his hands were sweaty. He’d been a sniper in the United States Army and nothing seemed to put him on edge like the confrontation that your affection for him might be more than he dared to let himself believe. 

The next dress you come out in was matted black and clinging tight to your curves down past your hips. It left little to the imagination and it reminded him of the red sequined dress he first saw you in the day he met you in Rumlow’s office. You had been uncomfortable in it, trying to adjust the fabric to pull it away from your body and force some give into the material. You pulled at the open slit running up your leg and tried to close the material over your exposed thigh. 

“Absolutely stunning,” Natasha commented and you nodded politely at her, though your expression was tense. 

Even as you stood in the frame of the curtain, Bucky could see you glancing back at your reflection, twisting around in the tight fabric and running your hands down your stomach and over your hips. You frowned. 

It looked like a dress Rumlow would put you in. 

“I liked the first one better,” Bucky spoke up suddenly, noticing your unease and as you turned to him, your whole body seemed to sigh of relief. 

“Yeah, me too,” you sighed, smiling again as you disappeared behind the curtain. Natasha didn’t say anything but Bucky could feel her eyes on him. 

***

Bucky wasn’t quite sure how long he sat in that chair, watching as you emerged from behind the curtain in dress after dress, playing with the fabric nervously as you waited for his reaction, though he never quite knew what to say. How could he? You were stunning in everything you wore from the most elegantly designed evening gown to faded jeans and oversized sweatshirts. 

After the fifth dress, a dark maroon color that dipped low on your back, you’d started laughing as you emerged from behind the curtains, dancing to the music playing softly above the speakers, and twirling around to get a feel for the dress. 

Bucky’s lips were damn near chewed raw just trying to keep himself in check long enough with Natasha so close, but he knew she could already tell how gone he was for you. It was hard to hide the grin on his cheeks when you’d grabbed his arm while wearing a burnt orange dress that laid just at the mid of your thigh and asked him to twirl you, you know, just in case it came up. 

There was a silver colored one with gem stones embedded down the lining that had you laughing hysterically, saying you felt like something out of your great aunt’s jewelry box and an emerald one that had you holding your arms over your chest to hide what little the fabric covered, and Bucky couldn’t stop smiling. 

“Think we might be here all day,” you laughed, plopping down on the couch beside Bucky in a red number with a skirt that took up the whole walkway and pushed out onto his lap as you settled in beside him. 

Bucky nodded, content to spend another twelve hours watching you smile and dance and look as beautiful as he’d ever seen you, but he found himself glancing up to the front of the store. He paused, licking at his lips. 

“Give me a second,” he said, oblivious to the way you’d raised an eyebrow at him, sharing a look with Natasha who only shrugged in return. 

He jogged up to the front, headed straight to the dress he’d been eyeing earlier, and pulled it from the rack. When he made his way back to you, you were standing again, watching him with a kind of awe he didn’t notice, because he was too wrapped up in handling the fabric of the satin delicately as he placed it in your outstretched arms. 

“Saw this when we walked in,” he shrugged, trying to be casual about it but his cheeks were bright red. “It’s uh, a nice color, and it’s soft. Might be comfortable for you, at least.”

You were smiling so wide, Bucky had to stop to wonder if the corners of your lips might touch your ears. 

“Yeah, okay,” you nodded, gripping the fabric tightly before you disappeared behind the curtain. 

Bucky dropped back down to the couch with a heavy sigh, shaking his head as he felt Natasha’s eyes on him. “ _Don’t say it_.”

She only smirked, arms folded over her chest.

A few minutes later, a soft rustling came from behind the curtain. 

“Can I, um,” you called out nervously, “can I get some help please?”

Bucky looked up to Natasha, but she was gritting her teeth suddenly, the high pitched clicking of heels echoing from down the hall as a blonde woman in a form fitting pink dress peaked her head out into the dressing rooms. 

“Miss! Miss!” 

Natasha rolled her eyes, her hands clenched at her side. She turned to Bucky. “If I’m not back in five minutes, call for reinforcements.”

Bucky started to laugh under his breath until Natasha’s eyes darted to the curtain you stood behind. She sighed, features softening for a moment and she leaned down to him, just close enough to smell the slight fragrance of peppermint on her breath. 

“Be careful, Barnes.”

Bucky swallowed, nodding, and Natasha pressed a hand to his shoulder, squeezing lightly. Before he could say anything in his defense, no matter how useless it would be, she had already turned and reluctantly began making her way down the hall to assist the blonde woman waiting rather impatiently for her; a causality of undercover work in a high-end boutique. 

“Is anyone out there?” you asked, voice small, fingers curling around the edges of the curtain like you might stick your head out to look. 

Suddenly, Bucky’s throat was bone dry, as if he wasn’t a special trained agent of the most prestigious investigative government agency, as if he hadn’t faced war criminals and drug lords and put countless murderers behind bars. He’d been stationed overseas, been put through hell and cozied up to worst of humanity and wore masks that his mother would never recognize, but this? _You?_ His hands were shaking. 

“Sorry, um, she had to help someone else,” Bucky replied, taking a step closer.

“Oh. I’m just having trouble with—ugh,” you groaned, and Bucky could hear you shuffling behind the curtain. “Would you mind just–” 

The red velvet of the curtain swung open, the rings sliding across the metal bar above pulling a gasp from his chest and he looked down to find your back to him. He nearly lost his footing. 

You held the front of the dress up at your chest with one hand, the other gathering your hair away from your shoulders, exposing the long arc of your spine down to where the zipper of the dress laid open by the dimples of your back. 

More skin than he’d ever seen on you, the soft curves of your frame, the freckles dotting like constellations, so smooth, so delicate and he longed to run his fingers over the trail of your spine. He wanted to feel you shiver under his touch, to memorize the places that made you giggle and the places that dipped and the places that were soft and ones that were taunt. He wanted it so badly, his whole body was aching. 

“James?”

He must have been staring too long. 

Bucky cleared his throat and quickly stepped forward. Hesitancy in his movements as he gathered the tiny metal zipper between his fingers, you hissed as he accidentally grazed your back and he murmured a rushed apology under his breath, cursing the ice of his skin. You giggled at that and it helped to ease the race of his heart as he slid the zipper up your spine until it closed just under your shoulder blades. 

You let your hair fall down your back with a sigh and you turned to face him, a slight nervousness in your movements as your eyes remained on the floor until you stood completely in front of him. Your eyes met his and Bucky took a step back, certain his heart might give out. 

Lavender satin glistened against the softness of your skin, form fitting at your waist until it pushed out in a thick, sweeping skirt that reminded him somewhat of a tulip. A slit ran up your right leg, stopping just at the upper curve of your thigh, but there was still room to hide behind it, where it was only noticeable when you walked. Thin straps at the shoulders and a trim that dipped at your chest just enough to display the silver pendent of a necklace he hadn’t noticed before sitting at your sternum; simple and plain, certainly nothing Rumlow would have bought you. 

You turned, giving him the full view of the dress, but the smile on your face was enough. You played with the waist of the skirt, twirling the fabric and twisting so it swooshed down by your feet. When you looked up at him again, you were practically beaming. 

“Better than nice?” 

“ _Nice?_ It’s… you’re… um…” he fumbled through his words, something he was entirely unused to. He took in a deep breath to find his mouth dry from how long his lips had been parted and he wondered how long he had stood there just staring at you before he added, “won’t be a single eye not on you tonight.”

You nodded, though there was more you wanted to say. A step closer to him and he could practically feel the heat of your skin. Cautious movements, the kind of nervousness that he used to feel as a kid before he kissed a girl for the first time, and you let out a steady breath, shaky on the way out as you found your courage. 

“I don’t care much for the attention,” you said slowly, your hands dangerously close to his, “but there is one person I’m hoping will like it.”

There was bile in his throat suddenly and he took a few paces back, wringing his hands on his pants. He should have known. You were married, weren’t you? How could he have been so blinded, _so foolish_ to think that you might care for him in some deeper level he’d allowed himself to fall into despite his years of experience and training? 

It burned like charcoal in his veins as he muttered out, “I’m sure the boss would–”

“Not him.”

Oh. 

_Oh._

He wondered if it was possible for his heart to beat right out of his chest, break through the cage of his sternum and rip him to shreds as it fell straight into your hands. He wondered if you’d cherish it and hold it as your own, if you’d nurture it and protect it, because he’d lay down his life for yours. 

“Did you find the one?”

You jumped back away from him with a gasp, frightened by a saleswoman’s sudden appearance in the dressing rooms. A petite, brunette woman stood at the edge of the hall, peaking over the frame. She wore that kind of giddy smile that sparkled up by her eyes, like she was genuinely happy to be working in customer service and seemed to be the type of person that it was exhausting to be around if you were anything but sunshine and rainbows.

“Y-Yes, I think I’ll take it,” you said quickly, nervously stealing a glance back at Bucky before your eyes darted to the floor, heat rising in your cheeks. 

“It’s a good choice. It’s from one of our most prestigious designers,” the woman nodded. “Apologies to your husband’s credit card,” she added with a teasing smile, having overheard your comment as you walked into the shop. 

You raised an eyebrow and she gestured to Bucky earnestly. It took a moment before her comment registered and when it did, your eyes snapped open wide and panicked; breath caught in your throat. You shook your head rapidly, flustered. 

“Oh! N-no, we’re– he’s not— _we’re_ not—um–”

“Goodness, my mistake,” the woman quickly apologized before she retreated from the room without another word, leaving the space between you empty and tense. 

Bucky swallowed back the lump in his throat as he turned to you, expecting a redness in your eyes or a numbness in your expression because this woman had just broken the fantasy, the moment of relief, where you weren’t bound to a man you didn’t love, who kept you tied to an ivory tower, who controlled almost every aspect of your life, but instead, you were laughing.

Wait – _what?_

Echoing through the dressing rooms and bright and vibrant enough to make Bucky’s stomach twist to knots, you were actually laughing. It was infectious, the kind of laugh that had a smile wrinkling up by your eyes and aching down in your belly, and as you grabbed onto his forearm for support, Bucky found himself starting to laugh, too. 

The two of you must have looked insane to anyone who passed by. The tall blonde woman Natasha had disappeared to help passed by with a slight scoff under her breath and a roll of her eyes, which only seemed spur you on more. It took a few minutes before the laughter faded into content sighs and you wiped the tears from under your eyes. 

“Don’t know why that was so funny,” you chuckled lightly under your breath as you grinned over at Bucky. 

He could think of a few reasons. 

Maybe because of the irony of how in-sync the two of you were, how seamlessly you fooled this woman who’d only seen the two of you together for a few minutes before she assumed you were married? 

Maybe because you both kept yourselves from what you both wanted, shielding each other with thick, brick walls to hide the very real longing underneath? 

Maybe because he’d give anything to be able to be with you, to show you affection that wasn’t hindered by shadows, to hold your hand in public and kiss you, to know you intimately and to have you call him by his name – his _real_ name?

But he nodded instead, smiling at you. 

“I should probably change so we can get out of here,” you sighed. Your hands slipped down the side of the dress, smoothing over the silk of the fabric. 

“You sure? You’d turn some heads walking down 5th,” Bucky teased, nudging your side until you were laughing again, swatting him away. 

“I told you, I’m not interested in everyone else’s opinion.” 

“Just one person’s, huh?” 

“Yup,” you grinned and Bucky clenched his hands to keep them from cupping the sides of your face and kissing you right there. His nails punctured into his palm and he smiled back for you. 

You turned your back to him, sweeping your hair over your shoulder and gesturing to the zipper. “You mind?”

Bucky reached out gently and slipped the zipper slowly down your spine as you held the front of the dress secure. The fabric parted all the way down to end of your spine, exposing the whole of your back and you thanked him quickly before turning to face him again, leaning against the wall of the dressing room. You pressed your cheek to the wooden frame, curling up against the curtain and he could see the curve of your bare back in the mirror behind you.

“I’ve, uh,” he started, clearing his throat. “I’ve got it on good authority that this person you’re talking ‘bout is going to think you’re the most beautiful woman in the room.”

Your cheeks turned a slight shade of pink and he could see you chewing on the inside of your lips. “Yeah?”

He nodded. “No doubt about it.”

“That’s a pretty quick judgement for someone who hasn’t given the other women a chance yet.”

“Won’t make a difference,” Bucky replied, pushing back a fallen strand of hair that had swept down into your face. He slipped it behind your ear and he felt your breath hitch. It was like instinct, like the most natural thing he could have done. “You could wear those ripped jeans of yours and a faded old t-shirt and you’d still take the crown, sweetheart.”

You shivered, mesmerizing the feel of his fingers gliding on your cheek before he pulled away. He hadn’t even realized the pet name slipped past his lips until he heard it in his own voice. He cleared his throat awkwardly, shoving his hands into his pockets as you took a deep breath and pushed away from the wall. 

It was a line he’d only ever stepped past once, the night you’d called him over after Rumlow enlisted Peter, a silent acknowledgement that there was more than just friendly banter and good books and Sunday afternoons between you. He’d felt the way you chased his touch, leaned into his hand, the softness of your skin, and the warmth of your breath. Your coded admission still ringing in the back of his head and he was already committing it to memory. 

“I’ll just be a minute.” You smiled nervously at him before you closed the curtains.

He told you to take your time. 

As he started to back away from the curtain, he could hear the fabric fall to the floor and the rustle of your jeans as you pulled them on. His heart was pounding, racing, he realized suddenly, and as he backed up to the wall, his knees caught on the couch and he fell onto the cushions. He exhaled in relief, though the feeling was short lived when he caught the scent of peppermint. 

“You’re going to get yourself killed.”

Bucky turned to find Natasha leaning against the wall next to him. She was looking at him the way she looked at Steve when he’d come back from an assignment covered in fresh bruises and scars; the same way she’d scold Sam for his light-hearted, care-free jokes in the middle of a war zone. It was their weakness. 

Steve’s recklessness on the battlefield. 

Sam’s reluctance to take the dangerousness of his job seriously. 

And Bucky… well, he supposed his weakness now, was _you._

He wondered how fast he’d be kicked off the case, reassigned, and thrown on desk duty. How long it would take before he was barred from seeing you again, before he was ripped out of your life without so much as an explanation and you’d be left alone to think the worst of him. He wondered if he’d even get a chance to say goodbye. 

“You gonna tell Fury?” he asked shortly, voice flat as he stared at the curtain.

“Of course not.”

That surprised him.

He narrowed his eyes on Natasha and she simply sighed, raking her fingers through vibrant red hair. She was a far more complex person than anyone ever gave her credit for.

“You’ve still brought us more intel in the last year than the Bureau’s ever had on Hydra,” she explained simply. “There’s no reason to pull out the best lead we’ve had in decades, but… you’re distracted when she’s in the room. You’re reckless with your affection for her and you’re not as subtle as you think. We both know Rumlow’s a jealous man. He’d kill for you this long before he finds out who you really are.”

Bucky clenched his jaw. “I know.”

“ _So,_ _don’t risk it_ ,” she tried to argue and he could hear the worry in her voice, the fear. “I know how much you care for her but–”

“You don’t.”

Natasha paused, shoulders slumping. Bucky shook his head. 

“You _don’t_ know, Nat,” he continued, voice tense as he watched the curtain swaying as you bumped into it. He let out a heavy sigh. It burned. “I’m still doing my job, aren’t I?”

“Yes, but–”

“ _Then_ _let it go_ ,” he snapped harshly, but he winced as it came out. Natasha was one of his oldest friends and while she liked to present herself as cold and withdrawn, she was riddled with compassion and empathy and it was rare he heard even a trace of uncertainty in her voice. It was unlike her and he knew better than to disregard it. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled and she pressed her lips into a thin line in acknowledgment. “I just… I don’t know how to turn this off. I can’t, Nat. I’ve tried. But I’m careful. I promise. Rumlow doesn’t know anything.”

“Is there something to know?” she asked quietly. 

He knew what she was asking, if he’d crossed the line and gone too far, if he’d kissed you or slept with you, if it ran deeper than flirty banter and smiles from across the room. 

“No,” he replied, though he wasn’t quite sure if that was true. There were ways to be unfaithful without being intimate. He’d barely even touched you before he knew how he felt and it raced like heat and electricity through his veins every time you walked in the room. 

“Have you told Steve and Sam?” he asked. 

She shook her head. “Only on the surface level. Sam’s been teasing you relentlessly at HQ for your ‘crush,’ though.”

“Of course, he has,” Bucky chuckled tensely, arms folded over his chest. He paused, looking over at Natasha. She pressed her lips into a tight smile, thin and nearly straight across her mouth, but it was there. She was trying. “I’ll be fine, Nat. We only need a few more months and then I’ll be out.”

“A few months is a lifetime when you’re under. You know that.”

Bucky parted his lips to say something, anything really, to reassure her, but suddenly the curtain drew open and you stood in the frame with the lavender dress draped over your forearm, and you let out an exasperated sigh as you leaned against the dressing room wall, oblivious to the hushed conversation that had transpired only a few feet away. 

“Finally,” you huffed, blowing away a hair that had fallen into your face before you turned to Natasha. “Thank you for your help. This could have easily been a nightmare.”

“My pleasure,” she responded gracefully, a slight bow of her head. She really was a good actress. 

“Ready to get out of here?” you asked, turning back to Bucky. “We’ve got a few hours before I have to start looking presentable. Think you could finish _Goblet of Fire_ before seven?”

Bucky grinned, nudging your side. “You underestimate me.“

You slipped your hand into the outside pocket of his jacket and pulled out the silver card your husband had given him a few hours earlier. You waved it in the air, the reflection of it flickering through the room, and you laughed at the very prospect of cutting a hole into his fortune.

Bucky watched as you practically skipped over to the register, chatting idly with the saleswoman as she rung up the dress and you fist bumped her when she’d shown you the screen of the price. 

“I see why you like her,” Nat said softly, smiling as she watched you rush around the side of the counter to help the cashier hang the dress in the garment case after a few failed attempts. 

Bucky couldn’t say anything in response. There was no lying to Natasha Romanoff and if he was honest, it felt nice to not have to hide it. 

“When it’s time, I want to make arrangements for her. I don’t want her anywhere near the fallout of this case,” Bucky admitted. He didn’t dare tear his eyes away from you in fear he’d lose his nerve, but he could spot Natasha watching him from the corner of his eye. 

“I know.” Natasha was never one for displays of affection but her hand snaked down to his wrist and squeezed it. “Just be careful in the meantime. Don’t lose your head, alright? I can only keep this under wraps if you’re still able to bring us what we need.”

“Thank you,” he whispered, because he knew how much she was putting on the line for him. 

He should have been reassigned and thrown on desk duty months ago with the way he was feeling about you. It was reckless, _dangerous even_ , to harbor feelings for a target in the field. It compromised his safety, the investigation, his ability to do his job. He had no business being anywhere near this case, and Hydra’s defense attorneys would have a field day if they knew his motives to take down Rumlow lied beyond just his criminal misdeeds. 

His career would be over. 

He’d be the reason Hydra was left unchecked for at least another decade. 

And even still, when it was you on the line, he’d give up anything and everything to keep you safe.


	9. Eight

When you returned home from the boutique downtown, James was trailing close behind you with the dress wrapped tight in a garment bag draped over his forearm. A deep chuckle echoed in his chest after you’d told him you texted Clara before he pulled into the driveway to start the kettle for you.

You had a few hours before you’d need to start on your hair and fumble your way through a decent makeup tutorial, and you’d hoped you could spend it with James curled up in the library, letting yourself lean against his shoulder as you’d turn a page and see whether he pulled away. You wanted to fill your senses with sweet apple caramel tea and the faded leather on James’ jacket and maybe the brush of his hand as he settled in beside you.

Smile bright on your face as you pushed open the door, you’d felt relief for the first time in weeks since Peter was dragged under Hydra’s claws. The warm gust of air pushed through the frame as you stumbled into the living room, turning back to James to tease him about how long he had to finish _Goblet of Fire_ , when you noticed his smile fall away instantly. Replaced with a stone-cold expression, hardened features, he was focused on something beyond your shoulder.

Brock.

“You get what you need?” your husband asked from his seat in the living room, nursing a half-empty glass of scotch. The bottle was close by. There was malice in his tone, a threat, and you felt pride in it.

“Yup,” you said, popping the ‘p’ on your lips as you shrugged off your jacket. James took it from you without a word and placed it on the coat rack.

Brock stood and crossed the room. He gestured for the garment bag from James and zipped it open, peaking at the dress inside. He didn’t say anything but you could tell by the sliver of disappointment on his face that he was hoping for something more revealing, with a deeper cut and tighter fabric, but he didn’t have the control over you he used to.

“I hope you have appropriate attire for tonight, Karpov,” he said to James, eyes flickering down to the dark wash jeans, t-shirt, and black bomber he usually wore.

“Of course, sir,” James responded shortly, and there was a slight flicker of resentment, something like a challenge in his voice that caught you off guard. Brock didn’t seem to notice but you wondered if his change in attitude towards your husband had anything to do with his relationship to you – _whatever that was._

“Best to give my wife ample time to get ready for tonight,” Brock added, as if you weren’t standing right next to him. “You know how long women can take to get ready.”

James wasn’t laughing, but your husband was. He was looking at you, checking for signs of distress as Brock tried to usher him out of the living room. He paused in the frame, like he was waiting for your approval before he departed and you gave him a slight nod. It was the last thing you wanted but you needed him to know you were okay to be alone.

Brock was an ass but you never felt threatened by him. You were safe despite your hatred of the man and you smiled softly for James. He gritted his teeth, still hesitant, but Brock nudged him further out the door until he had no excuse left to stay.

The door closed and, then, he was gone.

Without another word, you turned on your heels and started to make your way upstairs when you felt Brock’s hand snake around your wrist. You yanked it harshly from his grasp and he had the nerve to look surprised.

“Why so cold, baby?”

“Don’t act like we can play pretend anymore, Brock. You’re not foolish enough for that.”

He stepped back, licking at his lips as his eyes trailed along your body. He was displeased with your torn jeans and band shirt, favoring you to dress like the wealthy wives he’d seen in the papers and in press conferences next to their husbands; tight, short dresses, heels, and a full face of makeup, even on days they didn’t leave the house.

You started to turn your back to him as he reached out to your shoulder, but you slipped out of his grasp once again.

Brock grunted, arms folded over his chest. “You’re still angry about the kid.”

It wasn’t a question. The fact that he even dared to bring up Peter said enough about his limited ability to see anything past his own interests, his own cruel and selfless agenda. 

When you didn’t respond, Brock straightened his back, fake smile falling from his lips and turning into a hardened frown. “I hope you’re still aware of–”

“ _What?_ ” you scoffed. “The fact that you’re keeping me complicit in your crimes and this hell of a marriage to hold onto some perceived notion of power? Or that you’ve dragged the only family I have left into constant danger just to blackmail me into staying with you, as if the threat of jail time and extortion wasn’t enough? I _do not_ need reminding, Brock!”

You watched as he clenched at his jaw, the muscle flickering beneath the surface and you grinned. It wasn’t often Brock was speechless, riddled silent in anger alone, and you thrived on it. Maybe you would have been too afraid to confront him like this before, but something had changed, something had renewed your spark and your drive for freedom from this monster, and if you really let yourself think about it, you knew it had to do with startling blue eyes.

“If you’re worried about tonight, rest assure that I will play my part in front of the cameras,” you said, voice low and detached. “I’ll be the loving, submissive wife for the sake of the press and your immeasurably small ego, but inside these walls, _I owe you nothing._ ”

Brock parted his lips to speak but you were already halfway up the stairs, back turned to him and for once, he didn’t dare to follow.

You stormed your way into your room with heat and fire and gravel in your veins and yanked out an entire drawer worth of clothes. You carried it down the hall and into the guest room, the one with the painting filled with sunset colors you’d purchased from the bubbly college student named Wanda down at the artisan coffee shop and dumped the contents onto the bed.

Two, three, six drawers, and half of a closet later and all of your clothing was sprawled out onto the comforter. You didn’t stop there. No— you went back for your books in the nightstand, your toiletries from the bathroom, the jewelry sitting on the dresser and your shoes lining the floor of the walk-in closet.

It was barren when you were finished.

You collapsed down on the guest bed amongst the piles of clothes and let out a heavy sigh of relief, wondering why the hell you’d waited until now to do that. The surge of confidence was new, the absence of the fear you once carried for your husband, too, because what else could he possibly do to you? He’d already trapped you within this home and this marriage. He’d pulled Peter into his world. There was nothing left he could take.

You thought then of blue eyes, but pushed the thought away quickly. He didn’t know anything about James. That, you were certain. If he did, he wouldn’t be lying in wait. Brock was a jealous man. He would have retaliated by now.

After you managed to find your curler and makeup bag amongst the mess of clothes and shoes upon the bed, you made your way to the bathroom. You’d managed to get ready for these events dozens of times before with no issue, though you’d come to despise the false lashes, intricate hair styles, and heavy makeup you’d mask yourself in.

Those were things Brock wanted.

He wanted you to be the envy of the room, the embodiment of every fashion trend and style, just so he could claim you as his own. So, he put you in skin tight dresses to accentuate your curves, the most expensive of jewelry along your neck and your hands, and heels higher than you could run in.

You looked down at the curler in your hand, studying it for a moment, before you started to smile.

***

An hour later, as you slipped the dress over your head and spent an embarrassingly long time twisting around yourself to pull up the zipper on your own, you caught sight of yourself in the mirror. For the first time in years, you looked like… well, _you_.

Subtle, soft waves down by your shoulders with a few pieces pulled away from your face and tied back in a simple silver clip you’d worn hundreds of times. Neutral colors in your makeup, strengthening the natural beauty your mother had always reminded you of. Diamond posts in your ears and a thin chained pendent around your neck, gifts from your father after he’d missed another one of your recitals in your school days; jewelry Brock could never touch.

You stepped into the shoes you’d worn every year to the graduations at Columbia. Nude in color and with a wide enough heel that you weren’t wobbling on your ankles, they were still a little worn but they were comfortable, familiar, and you found yourself smiling at your reflection.

A single chime from your phone rang out and you turned to the bed, eyes narrowed. It took a moment, digging through the massive pile before you found your phone hidden under your fall sweaters and summer shoes, but you swiped open the message.

A hand set over your mouth, smiling so wide it almost hurt and you tried to chew on your bottom lip to keep yourself from free falling too much, but what else could you be expected to do when James sent you a message like this.

An imagine first. A picture of him sitting on what looked to be a couch that would have fit in amongst the graduate students you mentored years ago, half of his face covered by the top edge of a book, though you could tell he was smiling from the wrinkles up by his eyes. He was nearing the end, maybe only a few pages left of the same book he’d been working on for a few weeks now; _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire._

Classics weren’t limited to ones written by authors before you were born, you know.

Under the picture, a simple text, and it still made your heart soar.

**I warned you not to underestimate me, doll.**

Heart pounding, cheeks aching, you clutched the phone tight to your chest before sinking back onto the piles of clothes.

You were such a goner for this man.

***

No.

Nope.

_Jesus H Christ._

If you thought you were done for before, you should have waited until James walked in the front door in a suit.

Hair pulled back away from his face in a low hanging bun, a few flyaway pieces falling back to frame the strong line of his jaw. Black jacket draped over his arm, white button up shirt folded along the sleeves to his elbows from the heat of your living room, and pale blue tie slightly slacked at the neck doing the most to draw your attention to his eyes.

But it was the way he was looking at you that did you in.

As you stepped down the stairs, his words seemed to die on his tongue, his full attention watching you with every step; the softest, smallest of smiles pushing at the corners of his lips like he was surprised, relieved, maybe even proud. You imagined Brock would notice the change in your makeup and hair from your usual, that he might scoff at your lack of ‘effort,’ but it wasn’t his opinion you cared for.

As you neared the bottom step, James darted forward, shaking himself from his daze and offered you his hand.

It was like you were a kid again. Heart thunderous in your chest, uncontrollable smile, stomach fluttering under the pressure of a thousand butterflies coursing through you, all ignited by his touch. For a second, you were alone with him in this room and you wondered what would happen if you gave into every instinct, everything you’d been craving, and let yourself chase after someone for once instead of being chained to a wall.

But the second passed and Brock emerged into the living room; the fantasy world you’d built for yourself in that moment shattered with the stomp of his feet and the slam of the door against the wall. James dropped your hand immediately, stepping away before Brock could see, and as caught up in himself as he usually was, he didn’t seem to notice.

“There you are, baby,” Brock called, waving towards the door impatiently. He was staring at his phone, hadn’t even bothered to look up at you yet, but when he did, there was an ounce of disappointment to see you in the lavender dress. His frown made you smile.

“Follow in the car behind us,” he said sharply to James as he quickly turned out of the living room and began making his way to the car.

You rolled your eyes, huffing out a sigh and you mimicked his voice to James, earning you a hushed laugh in response. He offered you his arm and helped escort you down the front steps and to your car where Brock was already waiting inside.

“See you there,” you said softly before you slipped into the seat, as close to the door as possible to put some space between you and Brock.

James nodded, carefully closing the door behind you, though he lingered for a second on the other side of the window; hand pressed to the glass like it was some kind of extension of himself, keeping him tied to you for just a moment longer.

You studied the lines on his palms, the slight callouses and the nicks in the skin. You almost reached out to touch the window where his hand was placed, like you might be able to touch him if you tried hard enough, but then Brock cleared his throat.

“Let’s get a move on, shall we?”

When you turned back to the window, James was gone.

***

The blinding flash of the cameras as you emerged from the Bugatti was never something you were able to get used to in all your years with Brock. The light of it stung in your eyes, leaving behind blurs of stars in your vision, almost like a haze, as reporters and paparazzi called your name from all directions.

Brock rushed around the car, holding out his arm for you to take as you slipped your legs from the car, careful of the long slit in your dress. It was the only time he resembled a decent man; when he was under the watchful eye of the press.

The gala was host to New York’s wealthiest, set to raise hundreds of thousands, if not millions of dollars, for the city’s budget. Everyone who was anyone would be in attendance and that included men of a less than moral standard. They put on their smiles and paraded under the disguise of business fronts for their criminal schemes and everyone pretended like they were none the wiser. It didn’t matter where the money was coming from, it seemed, as long as it cleared in the bank. 

“Brock! Mr. Rumlow! How was your meeting with the commissioner?”

“Over here, sugar! Show us that dress!”

“Brock! A word on the jump in stock at the Lernaean?”

“Give us a smile, honey!”

You forced a curve onto our lips, though it seemed to ache in your cheeks, teeth gritting beneath the surface as Brock pulled you aside to answer the question of a pretty reporter holding out a microphone and wearing a long, red dress. He took his time answering her question, his gaze noticeably traveling down to the plunging neckline at her cleavage, though she didn’t appear to mind. She leaned into it, curved at her shoulders to make the exposure more pronounced. She knew what tactics to use to get his attention and get her quote. You’d admire her if you weren’t so angry with Brock for keeping you amongst the chaos of the photographers longer than necessary.

Though, even when you made it inside, there was no relief.

Instead, swarms of Brock’s business associates, local politicians, and sons of generations’ worth of inheritances crowded you as you stepped foot inside the extravagant ballroom.

Brock introduced you to Ulysses Klaue, a man with a nasty scar over his face and rotten teeth, claiming his money came from his family’s restaurant downtown and not the trading of weapons down at the docks.

Then, Grant Ward, the newly elected councilman already in your husband’s pocket with a boyishly handsome face and cold, dark eyes. The one you’d seen in your kitchen earlier that day as Brock coerced you into attending this event.

Finally, on your left, Obadiah Stane, who found his riches profiting off of a grieving, orphaned kid of billionaires.

You’d met all these men before.

Several times.

Brock, nor none of these men, ever seemed to remember. You supposed they only took in the pretty dress and the flow of curves, but never your face, and certainly not your name. Men like this didn’t much care for the character of the women in their lives.

You found yourself glancing around the room, in search of something, though it took you a minute to realize you were seeking out James. He didn’t seem to be anywhere in the main room and you hadn’t seen him pull the car up behind you and Brock at the front entrance. Your heart sunk a little, wondering how long you’d be left alone with your husband without reprieve.

He had promised he’d be here, hadn’t he? It was the only reason you hadn’t completely broken down twice as you’d done up your makeup. It was part of your usual routine anyway. The idea of acting as a trophy, a visually pleasing object at Brock Rumlow’s side for him to show off to his friends, wasn’t just humiliating, it was degrading. These events were nightmares to you until James.

He had to be here somewhere, you reasoned. He wouldn’t have lied to you. He wouldn’t have left you on your own. He was better than that, you were sure of it.

It only took four minutes of mild conversation and blatant objectifying comments of a young woman by the bar before Brock turned to you with a hushed whisper and said, “why don’t you go sit with the other wives? I have some business to take care of.”

It always came to that eventually. This sort of comment where he’d dismiss you when he no longer required your presence, when your purpose expired and he held no use for the pretty, silent woman at his side.

You glanced over to the gathering of wives at the center of the ballroom and scoffed at the prospect of being around those women. They were as ruthless and cruel as their husbands, Lady Macbeths standing amongst expensive couches in fear of wrinkling their dresses and gossiping amongst themselves, comparing riches and their husbands’ latest _business_ ventures.

Still, there was relief in not having to wear this mask any longer; of acting like the doting, loving wife, hanging off his arm for his friends to admire and stare at. You nodded without another word and quickly made your way to the bar.

Brock didn’t even seem to notice you’d left.

There had been a time that you’d been incredibly self-conscious on your own in a venue like this, dressed in garments worth twice your last paycheck and nursing a glass of red wine alone. You’d come to crave the solitude. It meant you weren’t listening to Brock’s endless self-praise or dealing with catty wives or forcing out a smile. It gave you a chance to just breathe.

Though, of course, it never lasted long.

You swirled the wine glass in your hand, watching as the burgundy red liquid chased the widest curve of the cup. Mesmerizing and dizzy with the alcohol in your system, you brought it to your lips and took back a heavy sip. It ran like warmth down your body, a comforting blanket.

“What’s a pretty thing like you doing on your own?” a voice suddenly purred from behind you, low and deep and unfamiliar, as a hand snaked its way from the low of your back around your hips.

You gasped, jumping out of the man’s hold and nearly spilling the wine down the front of your dress if the bartender hadn’t pulled it from you hand in time with a short grimace and placed it on the counter.

Your cheeks were flushed, the man staring down at you with little regard for his wondering eyes.

“Try hitting on someone else, creep,” you sneered.

“Come on, sugar,” he purred, ignoring the way you tried to step out of the space he invaded and moved closer to you, “I know you’re looking for some company.”

As his hand started to reach out to you again, suddenly it was stopped midair by a tight grip on the wrist. Wide eyes darted to the assailant before he was shoved away from you. A thick wall stepped between you, like a shield, and a wave of calm swept through your chest, easing your racing heart.

“She said no, asshole. Back the hell up,” James growled, his hands curling into fists.

You set a hand on his shoulder blades, a reminder that you were just fine and despite this man’s wondering hands and eyes, he didn’t require the brunt of James’ job description as punishment. The quiver in his stance would suffice.

“Fuckin’ prude. Not worth it anyway,” the man grunted before stalking away in search of his next target. He didn’t spare you a final look.

It took a minute before James turned around, but as he did, the hardness of his features softened immediately upon seeing you.

“You alright?”

You nodded. “’Course. Comes with the territory of these things.”

James clenched his jaw, clearly chewing on the inside of his lip. It bothered him that you’d become so used to the unwanted touches and the blatant staring of crude men. He wanted to say more, that much you could tell, but he sighed instead.

“It’s not so bad now that you’re here,” you said teasingly and his cheeks heated a slight shade of pink. How a man like James Karpov could manage to blush was still a mystery to you.

“That so?” he smiled, letting go of the tension as he finally turned away from staring daggers into the man he’d nearly assaulted.

James leaned back against the bar and picked up your wine, placing it into your hand. He looked over you as you took another sip, smile filling his face, pushing up by his cheeks and wrinkling by his eyes.

“I was right, you know,” he shrugged casually, glancing back out into the sea of guests. You raised an eyebrow, not sure what he was referring to, but as a stunning blonde woman walked by in a dress two sizes too small and the cleavage of her chest near spilling out the top, James didn’t even spare her a glance. “You’re the most beautiful woman in the room.”

Face burning hot, you tried to hide behind the wine glass, hardly able to even look at him, but he didn’t let up.

“Gave all these women a chance too, just like you asked,” he tsked. “Still don’t hold a candle to you in that dress.”

You chewed on your lip, tasting the lipstick you’d put on just an hour earlier you were sure was completely faded away by now. Your stomach was alight with fireworks and your heart was thumping so hard, you wondered if he could hear it over the string quartette playing just a few feet away.

“Almost thought you were gonna bail on me,” you said, changing the subject quickly because he was making it incredibly hard not to jump into his arms, and ravage him right on the bar, even amongst all these people and your husband laughing away with his associates not too far away. You squeezed your thighs together and cleared your throat awkwardly. “You get lost?”

He chuckled, unfazed by your lack of response. You supposed the slight tremor in your voice was enough for him.

“I’m not allowed the privilege of the front entrance,” he said. “Parked around back and checked out the security first.”

You nodded, taking another sip, hoping it might give you confidence. “I don’t remember Rollins ever taking precautions like that. You take your job very seriously, don’t you?”

He pursed his lips, a slight shake of his head. A beat, and then, “only when you’re in the room.”

He said it so simply, as casually as one might order a second drink or exchange pleasantries with a cashier at the store, like it was second nature. You found yourself staring at him, wide eyed and certain he could see every ounce of your heart spilling out from your chest, but he only winked at you with that charming smile of his before turning out to watch the guests.

He was trying to kill you; stop your heart, steal your breath, _something,_ because he kept saying things that made you feel impossibly weak, words that made your stomach twist in ways you hadn’t even experienced in the years Brock was pretending to love you and he’d purposely sculpted himself into everything you ever wanted in a man.

James was still somehow so much more.

***

You stood there with James for nearly an hour, laughing at the high-end attendees as they attempted to one up one another with stories of their latest vacations or libraries baring their name on college campuses. You made fun of a couple bickering with the waitstaff and the twenty-something son of a billionaire donning sunglasses indoors, wobbling on his feet and carrying around a half empty bottle of tequila while his father ignored him.

After a few times turning you down, James finally agreed to the drink you’d ordered him nearly twenty minutes prior and started to sip on the bourbon like it was honey. You could smell it on his breath but it didn’t repulse you in the way it did when Brock smelled of it. It was sweeter, lighter, and he wasn’t drowning in it. It made his cheeks a little flushed and his smile a litter bright, his muscles a little looser, and you wondered if you could adore him more than you already did.

His laugh was like the kind of melody that got stuck in your head after a single listen; a captivating kind of key change and a series of lyrics that punctured you straight through the chest. He was charming and kind and impossibly sweet and if left unchecked, you were certain you’d free fall for him straight into an abyss.

Though, you’d already made that jump months ago, hadn’t you?

“Think you might be up for Indian this time?” you asked as the conversation began to drift to your upcoming Sunday afternoons. He’d promised to meet you down by the bridge a few hours earlier so he could join you and Peter for lunch before Peter snuck off to find his ‘not-girlfriend’ Michele at the climate change rally downtown.

“I told you, Y/n, I’m up for anything. Whatever you want to do,” James smiled, taking another sip of his bourbon.

“You say that every time! I know for a fact the peppers at that Thai place we tried last week almost killed you,” you teased, thinking back to how quickly his eyes watered and he started coughing at the first taste, though he insisted he was fine even as he’d asked a water refill twice in the span of ten minutes. Peter was in near hysterics. You struggled to hold back your laughter. “You’re allowed to disagree with me, James.”

“Me? Never.”

You swatted at his arm until he started to laugh and you realized your cheeks were hurting from how wide you were smiling. Some of the guests glanced over in your direction, eyeing you under narrowed stared before they scoffed and turned away. You didn’t mind at all. It barely even fazed you.

But as with every good thing in your life, Brock found a way to insert himself right into it, leaving you with no relief. He was waving in your direction, a slight sway in his stance as his drink sloshed up over the side. You realized then he wasn’t looking at you at all, but at James.

“I think you’re being summoned,” you said disappointedly with a slight roll of your eyes. You nudged James’ shoulder and pointed in Brock’s direction as he nearly stumbled onto a friend of his.

James pressed his lips, pretending like he didn’t notice. “No, I don’t think so.”

He could hardly keep a straight face. It brought a smile back to your own. 

“You better go before you get us both in trouble,” you warned, pushing him along. You were laughing before you realized it. 

“You’ll be alright?” His smile was softer now, more serious, concerned. It fluttered straight to your chest and warmth burned around your heart.

“I can manage without you, you know,” you teased. He raised an eyebrow, about to challenge you with that grin of his, but you pointed to the back gardens. It was quiet out there, away from wondering eyes and you could use a break from the heat of the ballroom and the wine. “I’m going to get some air. I’ll be fine, James. Go.”

He gave you a short nod, quickly gulping back the rest of his bourbon, leaving you to laugh as he wiped his lips and turned to head towards Brock.

You watched him as he left, a cautious look over his shoulder the further away he got, like he was checking on you, making sure you were as fine as you insisted, and only turned back when you gave him a smile of encouragement. Brock had never done anything like that in your years together, even when he was playing his part so convincingly. But to James, it was an instinct.

Brock slid back into his chair, a little uneasy and you were certain he was drunk. It was a frequent occurrence at these events anyway. He’d waste himself in expensive alcohol until he could barely stumble home if he wasn’t practically draped over your shoulder and he’d let his hands wander in the car on the way home and as you’d put him to bed. No matter how many times you swatted his hands away, he’d slide his fingers up the thigh of your dress, or kiss at your collarbone as you took off your makeup, until you’d eventually give in just to get him to go to sleep.

It had been months since you’d last let him touch you. You couldn’t stand the idea of his mouth on you, his hands trailing over your skin and taking what he desired. It was like venom, _poison_ , and you couldn’t just roll over and close your eyes anymore. You’d found a courage to say no and you realized, as you watched Brock grab onto James’ collar and yank him down close to say something quiet in his ear, it had something to do with the kind blue eyes that still managed to watch you intently from across the room.

Brock shoved a glass into James’ hand and pressed him to sit amongst his inebriated friends. There wasn’t much about Hydra and Brock’s criminal life you knew details about, but you knew enough to wonder the sorts of things he was asking of James, the kind of conversations those men must have amongst each other.

James was reluctant, gaze flashing back in your direction, but you had already moved away from the bar. You watched as he narrowed his focus, glancing around for you until he spotted you walking towards the back doors. There was a slight exhale in his shoulders, though his expression remained stoic, almost longing, before he sat down next to your husband.

The double doors leading to the gardens were lined with reflective panels, the walls too, and it reminded you of the hall of mirrors in Versailles. Brock had taken you there on your honeymoon, back in the days when he was pretending to love you before your father’s money became available to him. He’d done such a convincing job back then and you wondered most days how you could be so foolish as to fall for his act.

With a heavy sigh, you watched your own reflection as you approached the doors. The lavender dress really was stunning; the softness of the color standing out amongst the sea of dark reds, deep blues, and forest greens. You never suspected James was lying about how well it suited you, but it felt nice to see yourself in something you liked, too, something you felt comfortable in and allowed you to resemble even part of how you saw yourself. You weren’t interested in transforming into Brock’s ideal woman with the hair extensions, false lashes, and skin tight dresses.

You just wanted to be _you_ , if only for once.

The air was cool as you stepped out into the gardens. It raised goosebumps on your arms and you ran your hands along the exposed skin. Still, against the flush in your cheeks from the busy, crowded ballroom and the alcohol in your blood, it was a relief.

It was really quite beautiful outside as you leaned against the balcony and looked out into the sea of flowers and bushes. Vibrant colors surrounded by infinite shades of green, all sitting under a star covered navy sky. It was like something out of your novels; a scene you’d never appreciated before until you found someone you wanted to share it with.

Starting to wonder if you’d find him again that evening, you picked up the hem of your dress, turning to head back inside when you were met with a wall of muscle; a slight chuckle in his chest and a hand extended out to you.

“Dance with me.”

James smiled softly at you, simply waiting, and you could only stare at his hand. The melodic tones of the string quartette filtered out into the balcony, playing a waltz you recognized from your time at Columbia. Your office had been by the music department and you’d slipped into the orchestra’s practice hours to grade assignments in the back row most nights.

Your eyes slowly trailed up to his face to find he was as sincere as he sounded.

“Dance with me,” he asked again. There was no impatience in his voice, if anything, there was amusement, enjoyment.

“What—What did Brock want?” you asked, changing the subject abruptly because he couldn’t possibly be serious, but he didn’t drop his hand and he didn’t step away.

“Nothing important,” James shrugged. “He’s too far gone to be talking business anyway and ended up trying to rope me into ogling with his buddies at a woman on the arm of military weapons manufacture with an ego the size of the empire state building.”

“And?”

James narrowed his eyes. “And what?”

“What was the consensus?”

You didn’t even know why you were asking, but you couldn’t seem to tear your eyes away from his hand. He let it fall then, but only to step closer to you. There was a softness in his features, a kindness that shouldn’t be there for a man of his profession, and yet, when he touched you it felt like he was handling something precious, something like paper thin delicacy with the calloused hands riddled with scars.

“She was pretty,” James admitted with an exhale, “but she’s not you.”

He stepped back again, extended his arm, that boyish grin on his face returning and you swore he was going to be the end of you.

“Now, dance with me.”

“James,” you sighed, eyes flickering inside to where Brock was laughing with his partners inside, a whiskey glass in hand as the amber liquid slipped up and over the edge with every jarred movement. “I don’t know if we can—this is— he’s _right there_.”

“Just one dance, doll,” James said sweetly, curling his fingers at you. “It would be a shame to wear a dress like that and not get a dance out of it. Come on, Y/n. It’s harmless.”

It most certainly wasn’t and he full well knew that.

“He can’t see us, you know,” James reminded you quietly, sensing your hesitation as he watched your gaze trailing back inside where your husband sat, a lingering hurt in his voice you didn’t expect. “Those are two-way mirrors. All they can see from the inside is a reflection of themselves. I think it’s rather fitting, don’t you?”

Right. You’d noticed that when you came outside.

“Dance with me, Y/n,” he asked again, persistent but never demanding. His hand was still there waiting for you to hold.

You stared at it, the open palm and the patience in his stance. There was no doubt that you wanted to, that you would have thrown yourself into his arms at his first invitation, but there was danger in that. With Brock so close, the risk of him finding out, of exposing whatever it was between you and James, it didn’t just terrify you, it was a constant source of dread.

Brock was an angry, jealous man, and he’d tear James apart if he knew even half of how you felt for him.

But the temptation was strong. James gave you the kind of choices Brock never did. He was kind and patient and understanding. He was everything you had once thought Brock was and still, somehow, so much more than that. He was sincere and genuine and you could never quite reconcile how he’d ended up working for a vile organization like Hydra. He was too good a man for that. You were certain of it.

You glanced up at his eyes to find him simply watching you, curious; shades of ocean blue and the light pink of his lips curving as your resolve began to crumble. It always would when he asked you to.

“One dance,” you warned, tentatively slipping your hand into his and he seemed to melt at the relief of it alone. His hand was cold, like ice to the heat of your palms.

He echoed your words, though once your hand was locked in his, his other sitting gently on your lower back as he guided you to sway along to the tempo of the music, you both knew one dance would never be enough.

You’d been in his arms once before, the night he’d come rushing over after Brock had dragged Peter into his underworld, already in the car before you could even get the words out to ask him to come. He’d held you as you cried and soothed a hand along your back until your eyes dried, but this was different. This was intentional. This was something you’d only allowed yourself to dream about in the furthest corners of your mind, never once believing it was anywhere within reach.

Yet, here he was.

You could smell the soapy fragrance of his shampoo, the oak of his cologne. You could feel the warmth of his breath so close to you that it brushed against your cheeks with every exhale. You felt the grip of his hand, the slight readjustments of the one on your back, like he might be as nervous as you were despite his charming demeanor.

“Don’t know the last time I danced like this,” you whispered, the words spilling from you before you could stop them. It seemed to surprise James for a moment before the realization clicked; the understanding that your husband was not a man of love and tender moments such as these. You wondered if it had been since your wedding day. You couldn’t remember.

“Well, I can’t tell at all,” James said, smiling softly at you. “You’re a natural.”

“Only because you’re leading every step,” you teased and when he started to laugh again, you swore there wasn’t a more beautiful sound in the universe.

“Have to have a good partner for that.”

You pulled your lower lip between your teeth, trying to stifle the smile pulling hard against your cheeks.

The two of you danced for at least three songs like that, swaying back and forth, a twirl under his arm when he decided to mix things up to pull a laugh from you, and a brief moment where he attempted to teach you to waltz properly, but you’d stepped on his toes enough times he brought you back to the simple swaying, teasing that you were going to put him out of commission with moves like that, though he promised to teach you next time.

You liked the sound of that. _Next time._

After the melodies playing inside began to soften, turning to long, drawn out notes amongst the deep sounds of the cello and the fragrant notes of the violin and violas, James lifted your hand to his neck, releasing his hold on your hand and slid it to meet his other at the base of your spine. You relaxed into him, resting your cheek to his shoulder, closing your eyes because you’d never felt as safe with any man as you did with James.

You could hear his heart thumping beneath the jacket of his suit and for a moment, you were reminded that you weren’t alone in your fears. You weren’t the only one who knew how dangerous this was, how much you were risking, how terrifying it was to care for someone the way you did for him. Fingers danced in the hairs at the nape of his neck, brushing at the baby hairs there and flattening your hands against his back, feeling as much of him as you could.

His nose pressed into your shoulder, arms snaking tight around your back, and you wondered if he’d been dreaming about this as much as you have. He held onto you like it was the last time, the only time, like he might not ever be given a chance again, and you realized you’d never known that kind of longing before. It nearly tore right through you.

“Your heart’s beating really fast,” you said quietly, not even sure he could hear you as your hand slipped around the base of his neck to settle against the rush of his heart. Under your palm, you could feel every pulse, and it was loud, frequent, and it seemed to channel right into your veins.

“Yeah,” he sighed, “it is.”

“Why is that?”

It was a dangerous question but you asked it anyway.

“I think you know,” he replied tenderly, his fingers tracing patterns in the small of your back as he leaned forward to press his nose to your shoulder. You shivered as he inhaled, his lips grazing your skin before he pulled back and swept a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “You… you make me do things I shouldn’t. You make me _want_ things I shouldn’t.”

There was more than what he was saying, words he was holding back, confessions on the tip of his tongue but he bit them away. You couldn’t imagine anything more forbidden that to fall for your husband’s right-hand man, his _enforcer_ , and for him to care for you in return. Brock was not a man many have dared to cross and when they have, well, they’ve ended up like Rollins – asphyxiated alone in a prison cell.

And still—there was something else. Something else holding him back but you couldn’t place what it was. There was guilt in his eyes, shame, he didn’t have when he spoke about your husband. James knew that your relationship to Brock was a sham, nothing more than a publicity stunt and you held no affection for him. It wasn’t a matter of adultery or breaking hearts. There was more going on than what he told you, but you didn’t press him. Not now.

“Sometimes I wish I could just run from all this,” you whispered slowly, clinging tight to the lapel of his jacket. You didn’t dare meet his eye but you felt as he stilled, as the sway of his steps gently pulled to a stop. “I think about getting on a plane and going somewhere far from where Brock or—or _Hydra_ could find me. But then I think about Peter and Aunt May and—and you.”

His breathed hitched. You felt his heart race again and his grip on you tightening, though he didn’t say anything.

You took in a shaken breath, trying to find courage as you rested your cheek to his shoulder.

“I’m not naïve. I know what you do for Hydra, but there’s something in me that can’t accept it. It just doesn’t make any sense and I keep racking my brain trying to figure out how you ended up in this world being as kind and compassionate and sweet as you are and I just… _I can’t_. I can’t figure it out because you’re nothing like Brock. You’re nothing like any of his men or Jack Rollins and I… I don’t understand. I hate everything about Hydra, what they do, what they stand for… but you… you don’t belong with them, James. You can’t.”

Heart in your throat, hands clenched so tight into his jacket your knuckles started to ache, the words left you before you could stop them. You held your breath, wincing at what you’d said because they had just tumbled out one after the other without much room for hesitance.

James swallowed thickly and you started to register his hand trailing along your spine, gentle reassurance, as he slowly brought it up to around your neck, then to rest on your cheek. As tenderly as you’d ever been touched, he guided you off of his shoulder to meet his eye.

There is was again; that guilt you swore had little to do with your husband but it was eating him alive.

“When this is over, I’ll take you away from all of this,” he whispered and your breath hitched.

You blinked a few times, not quite understanding. “Over? I don’t–”

“You’ll never have to see him again if you don’t want to. I promise,” James continued, determined, and he cupped the sides of your face. His thumbs traces along your cheekbones, almost desperately and his eyes flickered down your lips but he snapped his gaze away almost instant, like he was reminding himself the dangerousness of that thought. He cleared his throat. “I just need more time, sweetheart. Just a little more time.”

“Time?” you sighed, shaking your head slightly. “James, you’re not making sense. Time for what?”

Neither of you realized the quartette had stopped playing minutes earlier; the chirp of the crickets and the bristle of wind the only melodies left in its place. You reached up to his hand, holding it against you, wondering if this had anything to do with the shame clouded into the blue of his eyes. He didn’t answer your question, but you could tell from the clench his jaw how much he wanted to.

He parted his lips, like he just might tell you, but his eyes flickered to the floor and the words died before they touched his tongue. You sighed, turning your head slightly to kiss the palm of his hand as he held it by your cheek. It surprised him, ocean blue flashing up in an instant and you smiled softly at him.

Heart thunderous in your chest, you pulled yourself closer to him, enough that you were flush against his chest. His hand wove into the hairs at the base of your neck, stroking gently into the nape, and you felt the heat of his breath brush against your nose.

So close. Impossibly close. Closer than you’d ever been and it wasn’t enough.

You leaned in, inching away the space between you, enough to feel the sharp intake of breath as his lips parted. Aching, yearning. 

Your lips only grazed his for a second, a glimpse of the love and care and affection you’d been missing for years, before it was stolen away.

The doors to the balcony swung open, slamming against the stone walls and you jumped out of James’ hold, a gasp in your lungs. He took several paces down the terrace, brushing at his lips, his hair, eyes glued to the floor, as Brock sauntered into the garden.

His whiskey still in hand, the amber liquid barely kept within the glass as most of it ended up on the floor. With every step, he was stumbling, laughing to himself under glazed eyes, until he spotted you.

“There you are, baby!” Brock slurred, fumbling his way to you and you winced at the reek of alcohol on his breath. A few drops of the whiskey stained onto your dress.

You glanced over at James as he watched you from a careful distance. He was tense, hands clenched at his sides as Brock threw an arm around your shoulders, nose nuzzling at your neck and you tried to squirm out of his grasp as you felt the wet of his lips touch your skin.

“Ready to head home, sir?” James gritted from the corner.

Brock popped his head up, a drunken grin beaming on his face. “Didn’t even see you there, Karpov! You been hanging around my wife, huh? Trying to get some side action?”

James didn’t respond, his face as stone, but your heart was pounding.

“Well good luck!” Brock laughed, grabbing at your ass sharply and you swatted him away, ready to near smack him until he tugged you up under his arm again. His grip was strong for a man with alcohol in his veins. “Haven’t gotten a lay out of this one in ages. She’s a real tease.”

Your face was on fire as Brock dragged you back inside. There wasn’t anything you could do, not in front of all these people the way you could at home. He’d never allow it, even in this state, and it left you feeling weak and pathetic and shame coursed through you like poison.

James was only a few steps behind you and you could feel the anger seething off of him. There was a moment as Brock led you through the front entrance of the ballroom outside to the valet, when he told James to meet him back at the house, that you realized you were to be left alone with your husband again and the defiance in James’ stance made you question whether he’d ever follow Brock’s orders again.

It took him a second to respond and in Brock’s drunken state he almost didn’t notice, but James said, “I can escort Mrs. Rumlow home if you’d like to attend your meeting downtown.”

Brock paused, pursed his lips as he glanced over James, then to you. His eyes trailed lower, down to your cleavage and you looked away, far down the street where neither of the men could see the rush of embarrassment on your face.

“I think I’m good for tonight,” he smirked, tugging you tighter to his side and you counted down the seconds until you crossed the barrier into your home and you could crawl out of his hold without repercussions, lock yourself behind the door of your new room and wait until morning.

“I don’t mind, sir,” James pressed, studying the way you couldn’t quite meet his eye anymore.

Brock raised a brow. He wasn’t used to be questioned and he appeared for a moment, that he might retaliate, until he broke out into a smile as if he’d been in on the joke.

“Go the fuck home, Karpov!” Brock laughed, waving his hand. “I’ve giving you a night of freedom. Grab a woman and get laid, will you? God knows you need it.”

Brock gestured to you rather dramatically as the car pulled up. He leaned forward, nearly losing his balance in the sudden movement, and opened the back door.

“Let’s go,” he ordered, waiting for you to slide inside.

You swallowed, eyes catching on James and you could tell from the clench of his fists, the twitch of the muscle behind his jaw line, that he would have started a war in that moment if you asked him to.

You’d be fine, you told yourself. You always were. Brock would run his hands up your thighs in the car and he’d stumble his way to the bar cart as soon as he made it into the living room and he’d forget about you. He was too drunk to try anything tonight, but it didn’t seem to lessen the look of absolute rage on James face.

You resided to text James as soon as you could, the moment you got home. You’d make a laugh of it, tell him how Brock face planted on the stairs and how he could barely get his own coat off. You’d tell him you were used to it and you were making tea and catching up on your latest novel, even if you were huddled under layers of sheets, clinging to your phone, crying behind locked doors.

You’d tell him whatever he needed to hear because the look on his face broke your heart; too see how much he wanted to defy all orders and take you into his arms and away from the man who made you retreat so far into yourself you barely recognized your reflection.

But James was no fool. He knew the consequences of disobeying your husband. He wouldn’t survive them.

“Goodnight, James,” you said, voice as even as you could manage it. It was your promise to him that you were alright, that you’d be okay if he left, even if none of it was true.

You pushed out a polite smile, one your husband would not question, and without another look – simply because you knew you’d never be able to walk away from him if you turned back now – you sunk into the back seat of the car, crawled to the outside window and made yourself as small as you could.

“Goodnight, Mrs. Rumlow,” you heard James say in response, soft and aching, before Brock slid in behind you and closed the door.

The air smelled of whiskey. It burned.


	10. Nine

Bucky stood down by the steps overlooking the Brooklyn bridge; a familiar place he’d been dozens of times before. The air was crisp by the water. The brush of the wind burned against his cheeks and he tugged the collar of his jacket to hide from the cold. His muscles were tense, bones aching from locked knees and stiff arms, and he found himself turning back to glance down cobble stones streets in search of you.

His watch was heavy on his wrist. You were ten minutes late.

Bucky tried to not let his mind wonder in your absence, but the previous night was still etched into his memory. His skin was still alight; still tingling and prickling and surging with energy from where your hands had grazed along his neck, his shoulders, his chest, where your lips that had brushed over his for an impossibly short second, though it felt like an eternity. He could still feel you, the closeness he’d been craving for months, the ease with which you fell into him.

But along with every sweet smile you gave him, every touch, every laugh, he remembered the panic – _the heartbreak –_ on your face when Rumlow stormed out into the terrace. How you’d tried to squirm out of his drunken embrace, withering away from his roaming hands like they burned you, and he couldn’t rid himself of the image. 

You’d hardly been able to meet Bucky’s eye with your husband’s arms around you, a rush of heat scalding at your face and down your neck. It was burned into his memory, scolding hot.

It was the look you’d shared just hours earlier, on the steps of the gala, the _acceptance_ on your face that nearly tore him apart; the realization through downcast eyes that you were never going to be free of Rumlow’s hold.

Bucky clenched his hands, nails digging into his palms until it stung in sharp pricks. He took another look back down the street and still, there was no sight of you.

Then, a soft buzzing in his pocket jolted Bucky from his thoughts. He patted down his thighs in search of the phone and pulled it from his jacket pocket. Your name lit up on the screen and Bucky exhaled a wave of relief.

“Hey,” he answered, quickly walking away from the chaos of the tourists to find some quiet in an alley not too far from the water. He could vaguely hear you pacing on the other end of the line, the squeak of the wooden floorboards under your bare feet and the small huffs of breath.

“Hey,” you said back sweetly and Bucky could practically picture you tugging your lower lip between your teeth, twisting at the ends of your hair as you paced along the aisles of your library. “Please don’t think I’m avoiding you.”

“You sure? Feels like you might be,” he teased, thankful for the lightness returning to his chest. You always managed to help him find that part of himself again. Your voice was like honey and heaven all wrapped in one, sending jolts of the sweetest electricity through his veins and cursing away the darkness he clung to.

You laughed through the line, muffled as you much as clamped your hand over your mouth to keep silent. A moment passed, a heavy breath before you said, “well, I wish I wasn’t.”

There was a solemnness there, a glimpse of the reality of your life keeping you under lock and key, trying to push its way into the façade of your harmless flirting you both knew was more dangerous than you’d ever admit. It was supposed to be an escape, a semblance of joy amongst the isolation you’d been kept in, but it became a new torture all its own.

To want someone so desperately and it know you could never have them. So close, on the tips of your fingers, and miles away all at once.

“I know,” Bucky replied. He glanced up at the street, watching a couple as they walked by hand in hand, the woman’s head leaning against the man’s shoulder as he gazed down adoringly at her. A pang of jealousy warped in his gut. He sighed, trying to change the subject, forcing a lightness to his voice. “Thought you owed me a trip to that Indian hole-in-the-wall place you like. I was looking forward to garlic naan.”

You chuckled at that, but there was something lingering behind, a longing that ached and choked you as you cleared your throat. “Next time, James.”

Bucky paused, turning away from the street, facing the dark end of the shadows. “Are you alright?”

The question seemed to catch you off guard.

“Always am,” you said simply, though it felt rehearsed, like you told yourself a dozen times over until you started to believe your own lies. 

He tried not to picture the way you’d flinched under your husband’s grasp, how you’d clenched your jaw when he kissed your collar and held your breath as he’d dug his hands into your waist hard enough to leave bruises.

“Did he,” Bucky started, taking in a breath as he felt his nails puncturing to his palm again. “After I left, were you—Did he try to—”

“No,” you responded quickly, sharply, and it didn’t lessen the tightness in Bucky’s chest.

He’d kept himself up all night since he’d watched your car disappear down the end of the street, plagued with images of you pressed flush against the door of the car, trying to make yourself small and invisible as Rumlow’s drunken hands roamed under the seam of your dress. Because his mind was cruel and unforgiving, he wondered how many times you’d closed your eyes and simply gave in, how often you gritted your teeth and took it because putting up a fight only made it worse.

He wondered if you might have last night.

It made him sick to his stomach.

“James? You there?”

Bucky cleared his throat, nodding, though he knew you couldn’t see. He pinched at the bridge of his nose, reminding himself that whatever resentment he felt couldn’t compare to what Rumlow had subjected you to for years. 

“Sorry, doll. I’m here.”

As loud as the tourists were up on the streets along with the hustle and bustle of the pedestrians and the street venders and the purr of engines, Bucky could still hear your quiet breaths through the phone. He heard a slight shift through the line, the sound of your cushions as you sunk into the couch. He wondered if you had a mug of tea next to you, if it smelled like apples and caramel or if it was floral and mild.

“I am alright, you know,” you said slowly, testing the waters. “Better than I have been in a long time.”

There was an implication there, something you weren’t voicing but it was laced in your words, that he had something to do with that. It hurt more than he expected, the pain in his chest, to realize how easily he could destroy that, how quick your trust in him could erode away the second you found out who he was, because _you would._ You would find out eventually and he wasn’t sure he was ready for it.

“Have you seen Peter lately?” you asked, changing the subject, and he thought he heard you sniffle, perhaps a brush of your finger under your nose. “He knew I couldn’t come to Queens today but I… I overheard Brock say he had a package to deliver.”

Bucky took a deep breath, pushing himself away from the wall to begin pacing down the alley. He was thankful for the relief. “I followed him on his run last week and he’s still doin’ okay. I’ll track him down and make sure he gets around safe.”

“Okay. Thank you, James,” you said. “I can’t tell you how much it means that you watch out for him like this.”

“Of course,” Bucky replied, making his way back out to the street. He’d have to catch a train to Queens to get near the Parker house before Peter had a chance to leave. “You know I’d do anything for you.”

“I know.”

He could hear the smile in your voice. It was enough to get him through the next day, at least. He’d see you tomorrow, even if it was in passing. It would have to be enough.

“I don’t mind doing it for the kid, too,” Bucky added with a grin. “He’s an easy one to like.”

“That he is,” you giggled and it was like music to his ears.

Bucky stood at the top of the subway steps. “I’ve got to go, doll, but I promise I’ll text you if anything happens.”

“Text me even if it doesn’t?”

Bucky chuckled under his breath, picturing that sly look on your face, the knowledge that you had him right where you wanted him, like you knew the power you held over him.

“’Course, sweetheart,” he conceded. “Talk later?”

“You know where I’ll be.”

***

It wasn’t the first time Bucky had tailed Peter. He’d spent a few hours here and there following him on his runs for Rumlow, carrying a brown box under his arm and his backpack strapped tight around his shoulders through parts of the city Bucky wouldn’t have dared ventured into when he was in school.

Peter whizzed through tourists and skirted down open alleys, winding through back routes and jumping over fences. He wasn’t an easy one to keep up with, but Bucky had been trained well in his years and he liked the challenge.

Just as Peter turned down to a side of town with bars on the windows of the local shops and trash littering along the streets from parties the night before, Bucky picked up his pace.

He brushed past a woman making her way down the sidewalk with a dozen shopping bags on her arms, talking loudly through wireless headphones and complaining that she’d made a wrong turn, completely oblivious to the six-foot-tall man in her path. Bucky stepped aside as she passed, keeping his hands firm in his pockets, head down and covered by the brim of a baseball cap.

Peter didn’t notice.

Bucky followed him down the street, keeping a careful distance, until he paused outside of a convenience shop on the corner. He knocked on the window three times and paused. Bucky stepped into an adjacent alley, out of view as Peter patiently glanced around the area as he waited.

Peering around the corner, he spotted a woman emerge from the shop with long black hair down to her waist, prominent cheekbones, and a sly smile as she took the package from Peter. She handed him an envelope and some cash she told him to pocket. Peter was all smiles, waving politely at the woman Bucky believed to be the head of the Asgardian empire; Hela Odinsdottir.

Bucky quickly pressed his back against the wall again, shielding himself from sight. He didn’t exactly have a favorable history with the Asgardian leader. 

No – he’d been behind her arrest several years back when she was apprenticing under her father, though she got out on a technicality a few months later. Hela was a woman that thrived on revenge and held onto every grudge and grievance until her antagonist was beaten and bloodied.

She was as sadistic and cruel as Rumlow and all of Hydra itself, but there was something darker about her. While Hydra was manipulative, patient, calculating, Hela bared no shame, no humility for her evils. She grinned, though it stopped abruptly before her eyes, as she returned Peter’s wave.

The kid had no idea how close he was to the city’s most dangerous criminal.

As Bucky turned to catch a look at Peter to make sure he got home safely, his breath caught to find the streets empty. He darted out onto the side walk, taking a few steps towards the store, though careful to keep his face hidden, but Peter wasn’t anywhere in sight.

“Shit,” he cursed, hands darting up to his head. He’d have to back track. The kid couldn’t have gotten too far on his own. He couldn’t stand the thought of having to tell you he’d lost your cousin in Asgardian territory, let alone walking around with the knowledge that he let a sixteen-year-old kid loose in Asgard.

Bucky turned to head back in the direction he’d followed Peter in, when a short, lanky frame froze him dead in his tracks. Peter stood in front of him, arms folded over his chest, eyebrow raised as he chewed on his gum.

“Hey Mr. Karpov.”

Bucky sighed, taking off his baseball cap. The jig was up. “Peter.”

“You’re following me, huh?” he asked, the purse in his lips enough evidence that he didn’t need Bucky’s confirmation. “You’ve been following me since my first run. I’m not completely blind, you know.”

Bucky didn’t respond. He knew better than to give the kid more ammunition.

“Let’s take a walk,” Peter stated casually, as if he was pulling lines from an old gangster movie he caught on TV down at the laundromat. He gestured for Bucky to follow, and frankly, out of pure amusement, he did as the kid asked.

They walked in silence for a good four blocks before either of them said anything. Bucky stole glimpses at Peter from the corner of his eye, noticing how at ease he was, how he’d wave at shopkeepers as he passed and earned smiles in response. He knew the neighborhood well. It was probably why Rumlow wanted him on the team in the first place.

“Come on, I’ll get you a coffee,” Peter said, pointing to a café Bucky recognized instantly as one you’d spent your Sundays grabbing teas at for years; the one with the high school kid in the play you’d been wanting to drag him to. Bucky didn’t even realize they made it all the way back to Brooklyn without a word between them.

“That’s not necessary, Peter,” Bucky started to say as Peter held open the door. He wasn’t taking no for an answer.

“Come on, Mr. Karpov,” Peter urged, a knowing smile on his face, though something was a little off about it. “I have to show some thanks to the guy that’s been keeping Asgardian cronies and Hydra assholes off my back.”

_Well, shit._

Bucky pursed his lips, nodding as he followed Peter into the café. You’d always said the kid was smart. Perhaps he should have known he would have figured it out eventually.

Bucky took a seat in the corner of the café. It was quiet inside, with little customers sticking around past ordering a to-go cup or a homemade muffin. Peter quickly made his way over to the register where a teenage boy was playing on his phone behind the counter. Bucky thought he remembered you refer to him at Mateo.

The two of them spoke quietly, but Bucky could vaguely hear Mateo say, “no Y/n today? I had a new herbal blend I wanted her to try.”

He sounded disappointed.

“Not today, but guaranteed she’ll be here next week,” Peter relied, throwing a few dollars on the table. “I’ll tell her you were missin’ her.”

“Tell her dress rehearsals are next week, too. I’ve got tickets for her for opening weekend if she still wants them.”

“She does,” Peter said, squashing any doubt that Mateo had, earning a wide smile and an enthusiastic nod in response. There was a reason Peter was loved by so many people in this city. He was a good kid; kind, generous. It was rare to find someone like that these days.

Mateo handed Peter two cups of what Bucky assumed to be black coffee. When Peter made his way back to the table where Bucky was waiting, he picked up a bowl of sugar and a carton of milk. He handed Bucky his coffee wordlessly, and immediately began to douse his own in three spoonfuls of sugar and nearly overflowed it with milk.

Bucky eyed him cautiously, watching as Peter dipped the end of a spoon into the cup and swirled it a few times until he was satisfied. 

Bucky left his black.

“How long have you known?” he asked slowly, watching for Peter’s reaction. Bucky reached for the cup of coffee, the steam of it warm against the bristles of his beard before he took a sip. He burned on his tongue but it tasted of relief.

Peter slumped back into his chair, a slight shrug in his shoulders. He let out a breath. “Not long enough. Figured it out after my first run.”

“What tipped you off?”

“The Asgardians have loud mouths,” Peter chuckled, though it was absent of humor. “Overheard one of their guys talking about Y/n, so I hung around behind the shop I did the trade at. They kept referring to her as… as, um… Hydra’s—” Peter let out a deep breath. He couldn’t say it.

Bucky dug his nails into his thigh. He’d heard the term before. Only once when a worker down at the shipyard was foolish enough to make such a comment in Bucky’s presence before he was thrown into the Hudson for a quick swim.

_Hydra’s whore._

“So,” Peter continued, shaking his head as all traces of his trademark smile disappeared into an angry frown, “I did some research. Turns out, it’s pretty easy to overlook red flags when you don’t wanna see ‘em. See, I knew about Hydra; heard about them on the news and stuff but I just never made the connection. I mean, why would I? Why would I ever consider that my cousin’s husband – who I _never see_ and have maybe met a _total_ of four times – would be the head of some massive criminal organization? And, with Y/n lying to me–”

“She was only trying to protect you,” Bucky interjected defensively and Peter nodded slowly. He knew.

“I know she was doing her best,” Peter admitted sadly, the anger draining from him quickly. “I understand now why she’s been keeping me from the house, away from Brock all these years. I get why reacted the way she did when Brock offered me this job, why she got so weird. A lot of things make sense now. I just… I hate that she’s been trapped in all this for so long and I had no idea. I feel like an idiot.”

“You’re not,” Bucky said sincerely. He let out a heavy sigh, watching as Peter scrunched at his nose, eyes darting down to the table, trying not to let himself cry. “You were her only solace for a long time, Peter. You did a lot for her, more than I’m sure you know.”

“I could have helped her,” Peter argued, the coffee long forgotten as the steam disappeared above the full mug. “I could have called the cops or helped her escape or something.”

“It’s not that simple, kid. Rumlow’s hanging threats of charges over her head if she were to step out of line – everything from money laundering to accessory to murder – and now, unfortunately, he can hold you over her, too.”

Peter slumped into his chair and Bucky was reminded he was only sixteen years old; the floppy mess of brown hair, the backpack down by his sneakers, his age showing with every uneasy breath in. He pinched the bridge of his nose, hands shaking in anger.

“What do I do now?”

“Keep your head down. Do as you’re told and nothing more. Let me watch your back,” Bucky said slowly. “Y/n kept this from you for a reason. Hydra is made up of incredibly dangerous people, none worse than Brock Rumlow. He’d kill you just to keep her complicit, Peter. Do not trust him.”

Peter nodded, accepting this rush of world changing information easier than Bucky anticipated, but there was a hesitancy in his eye. He glanced up at Bucky, a reluctant kind of betrayal on his face.

“What about you?”

Bucky narrowed his eyes.

“ _Hydra is made up of incredibly dangerous people_ ,” Peter said, repeating Bucky’s words back to him. “Why should I trust you? Why—Why should _Y/n_ trust you? You’re just one of them, aren’t you? Hell, I know who you replaced. Jack Rollins, right? You’re some kind of hitman.”

Peter’s voice was even as he said it, pushing out as much courage as he had in him, and despite the flash of fear behind the kid’s eyes, Bucky was impressed. For this high school kid to stand up to who he believed to be an enforcer for Hydra, it took guts, more than Bucky had at his age.

“You know me, Peter,” Bucky started calmly, hoping to ease the kid’s obvious tension. “After all these Sundays, you know me. I would _never_ hurt Y/n… _or_ you.”

“Do you love her?”

Bucky nearly choked on the coffee as it brushed his lips. “What?”

“I’ve seen the way you look at her,” Peter shrugged, stirring his coffee absentmindedly. “You care about her. You must. I don’t know the last time I’ve seen her as happy as she’s been this last year and I can’t help but think it’s because you’re around.”

“Peter, I—”

“You don’t have to answer,” he replied simply, knowing he had Bucky exactly where he wanted him, “just make sure you know. Hitman or not, I’ll come for you if you hurt her.”

Bucky found himself smiling at that. Even Peter started to laugh as he tried to take a sip from his lukewarm coffee. The tension left the air and Peter seemed to relax into his chair. He took a huge gulp of the coffee, nearing downing half the mug in one go.

“I wouldn’t expect anything less, kid.”

***

Bucky pulled into the long, winding driveway leading up to the Rumlow Estate. Far away from the prying eyes of the road, sitting behind polished golden gates and lined with an endless series of shrubbery leading to the garage, Bucky had yet to get used to the sight. It was cold and unwelcoming; the dark undertones of the home and the absence of the florals you kept within your library extending to the exterior, it reminded him of a prison.

Your prison.

Bucky wondered what the place would have looked like if you were given any allowance in the design, if it would feel as warm and inviting as he felt when he stepped foot into your favorite room of the house; like the smell of old novels and black tea, the feeling of cozy blankets and soft cushions, the sound of your voice and raindrops on the windows. He thought of heaven.

His heaven.

As he pulled his car into park and made his way up to the front door, he found himself smiling. He’d been texting you most of the night; just back and forth as you watched some poorly constructed true crime documentary on cable from your separate homes together, making fun of the prosecutor’s mustache and the making guesses on who the killer was. Bucky could hardly wipe the grin off his face long enough to sleep.

It didn’t help that his phone was buzzing every few minutes because neither of you were willing to call it quits first. He was in high school again.

He wondered if this was what love was supposed to feel like but quickly pushed the thought away as he knocked on the door. Now wasn’t the time for such thoughts, not with his confrontation with Peter yesterday and the knowledge that he’d have to tell you that the years you’d spent keeping Peter in the dark had come to an end. His smile faded.

He couldn’t tell you last night, not over text. Peter was still safe. Nothing had changed, Bucky reasoned. The only difference was now Peter knew the darkness that had taken over your life. It also meant that Peter was no longer an unwilling accomplice. When this case finally came through, Peter’s name would be on the list of Hydra payroll members.

Bucky had some time, though. He’d figure that out. He had to.

You pulled open the door, wide smile on your face at the sight of him; dressed in a sweatshirt big enough to reach the mid of your thighs, black leggings and fuzzy slippers, hair messy down by your shoulders and glasses on the brim of your nose. You were the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen.

Though, you narrowed your eyes, smile faltering a moment. “What’s wrong?”

How did you learn to read him so well?

“Let’s go inside, hmm?” Bucky offered, stepping through the door to shrug off the cold. Rumlow was on a business trip to DC. There was no fear of him walking in, but Bucky kept his jacket hung over his forearm despite the coatrack next to the door.

“Do you want some tea?” you asked, already heading to the kitchen, expecting his answer. He nodded at you, watching as you pushed through the door and disappeared. You were back only a few seconds later with two mugs in your hands; steaming and seeped. You’d already had them made.

“You think of everything,” Bucky chuckled, taking the mug from your hand and revealing in the warmth that spread through his palm. His senses filled with ginger and orange.

He followed you back to the library, your safe place even when the home was completely empty. You’d skirted through the door before he had a chance to open it for you, and you winked at him teasingly.

“So,” you said, balancing your mug as you sunk into the couch, “you gonna tell me what’s up now?”

Bucky sighed, setting his mug on the table as he sat down next to you. He wrung his hands in his lap. “I met with Peter yesterday.”

“Right. You said he delivered everything fine,” you recalled, thinking back to his short text the previous afternoon. Through narrowed eyes, your anxiety started to peak.

“He did,” Bucky confirmed, noticing your questioning of whether it had been true at all. You relaxed instantly, smile retuning.

“So, what’s the issue, then?”

“He knows.”

You slowly set your mug down on the table. Every muscle was tense. “What?”

“Peter knows about Hydra. All of it.”

Bucky was waiting for something to happen, for you to scream or cry or curse him out for letting this happen, but you were silent. You were still, like stone, and you blinked twice. Then, you carefully pushed aside the blanket and rose to your feet. You paced along the aisles of books, a finger running along the bindings. Grounding.

“How?” you asked after a painfully long silence where Bucky was almost sure you could hear his heart thudding in his chest.

“He overheard the Asgardians talking about you,” Bucky answered, adjusting his position on the couch to face you. He bent over his knees, elbows resting on his thighs. “They were calling you—”

Bucky bit his tongue.

Your eyes were on him, he could feel them. You weren’t foolish. You’d heard the rumors, the nickname the friends and enemies of Hydra had given you. It didn’t sting any less, but Bucky refused to say it, just as Peter had.

You took in a deep breath, jaw clenching as you paused at the middle of the aisle, near the George Orwell collection. “Is he okay? Does he—does he hate me?”

“What? _No_ ,” Bucky quickly answered, standing from his seat and crossing the room to you. He stood just a foot from you, testing the waters, before he reached out and ran his hands reassuringly along your arms until you let go of some of the tension and gave in enough to fall into his chest and let him wrap his arms around you. “He’s just confused. Has a lot of questions but he understands. He’s worried about you, though.”

“Of course, he is,” you chuckled into Bucky’s sleeve, your voice slightly muffled by the fabric of his shirt. Your arms curled around his waist, nestling in closer to his chest and Bucky could smell the scent of your shampoo in your hair as it brushed under his nose.

His let his hands trace in gentle patterns on your back as the silence carried over. He didn’t mind it, just listening to your breathing and absorbing the feel of you so close to him. He’d give you the time you needed, however long it took to find your words again. He’d wait.

“How did this happen?” you asked after some time. You squeezed him tighter. “How did my life become such a fucked up mess?”

Bucky didn’t know what to say. There were no good answers.

“I used to wish I never met Brock,” you sighed, your hands curling into the fabric of his t-shirt. “I used to dream every night that I could go back and walk down a different street, that I never bumped into him and he never pulled me into his web. I used to imagine my life without Hydra. I’d still be a professor at Columbia. I’d still be writing articles and grading papers. I’d be giving Ted Talks.”

Bucky brushed a hand along your forehead, drawing away the fallen pieces of hair as you pulled back just enough to look at him properly. There was a redness in your eyes that caught him off guard, but it was the lingering smile that surprised him most. It was sad, longing, and he wanted to kiss it to something kinder.

“I’m not sure I’d wish for that anymore,” you sighed in an exhale, voice so small he barely heard it. Your hand trailed along his arm, up his shoulder until it rested against his neck. Your thumb grazed his jawline in gentle sweeps. “If I did, I never would have met you.”

If Bucky had any air left in his lungs, he would have lost it then. How had you said that so casually, like you just might relive every nightmare you’d been pushed into since you met Brock Rumlow just to lead you to a man whose real name you didn’t even know? His stomach was in knots; waves of guilt and relief, shame and adoration, all combing over into one.

“Y/n…”

Your lips were only a breath away before he knew it.

But then a loud vibration from the table sent you both stumbling from each other. Heart skipping a beat, Bucky glared down at his phone as it set on the wood of the coffee table, lit up with the initials _SR_ as it screamed it him to answer.

He glanced at you apologetically and you pushed out a soft smile, one that understood. You’d been interrupted before and there was that kind of hopeful look in your eye, one that believed there would be another time, one where he wouldn’t be torn from you again and you’d wait patiently for it.

Bucky answered the phone, stepping a few paces away and held the phone to his ear. “Now’s not a good time.”

“Don’t start with me,” Steve growled. “Get your ass to base. _Now_.”

The line hung up.

Steve knew, Bucky was almost certain. Whether Natasha had finally given in or if he found out on his own, it didn’t matter, but Bucky was about to walk head first into a shirtstorm hurricane named Rogers and he’d be lucky if he got out in one piece.

Bucky paused for a moment, collecting himself before he faced you again.

“I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be,” you smiled sweetly, nudging him towards the door, towards the brutal end of consequences you remained unaware of. “Go.”

“I wish I could stay.”

“I know.” You helped him back into his coat, leading him down the long hallway back to the main entrance. He paused in the doorframe, turning back to you and you reached for his hand, squeezing it lightly in your own. “Thank you again for watching out for Peter.”

“You don’t have to thank me for that.”

“Of course, I do,” you said, swaying his hand in yours. You leaned up on your toes, your free hand resting on his shoulder, and you pressed a hesitant kiss to his cheek.

Bucky inhaled and short breath, the lingering trace of your lips on his skin, the warm, the fleeting feeling of it already faded and it was seared into him. You offered him that sweet smile of yours, chewing on your lower lip bashfully and Bucky was sure his face was scalding red. He didn’t mind at all.

“I’ll see you later, doll.”

“There’s a new dateline this evening, you know?” you called after him as he made his way to his car.

He laughed as he pulled out his keys. “Guess I’ll talk to you tonight. Goodbye, Y/n.”

You sighed, leaning against the door, arms folded over your chest as Bucky slid into the driver’s seat.

“Goodbye, James.”

***

_“What in the damn hell is the matter with you!?”_

Steve was red in the face, pacing back and forth down the open space of the safe house Bucky had been meeting the team in once a month for the past year. Sam stood quietly in the corner, arms folded, head down, because he knew better than to cut through the tension with something quick witted and charming. Natasha sat at the table next to Bucky, tapping her nails against the metal.

“Hard to explain when I don’t even know what you’re all worked up about,” Bucky replied, teeth gritted. He knew exactly where this was going, but he wasn’t ready to admit it yet.

Steve shot him look of disbelief, somehow mixed with anger, and he slid a series of photos across the table. Bucky didn’t look at them at first, instead, keeping his eyes trained on his oldest friend. He’d never seen him like this before, like he’d been stabbed straight through the back, knife carving down his spine until there was nothing of him left.

As Bucky looked down to the photographs in front of him, there was a twist in his stomach, an unpleasant nausea he knew to be guilt, but he swallowed it back.

The first few were images of him walking alongside you in Brooklyn on days long after Sam and Steve had been observing in the shadows; smiles bright and beaming on your faces and hands so close together as you walked it would have only taken a short breath of courage before you were holding hands.

The next, were pictures taken at a distance, blurry and through the window of your library, but he could still make his own image out clear at day. He was sitting on your couch, nursing a mug of tea as you curled up beside him, reading silently.

The final photos, the one Bucky was sure was sending Steve into a full meltdown, were ones from the gala. You, dressed in that beautiful lavender dress, your arms draped up around Bucky’s neck as he held you close, swaying together on the balcony terrace overlooking the garden, away from prying eyes of the guests. The images came together like a movie, one right after the other, how close he’d been to kissing you and then, as you both jumped away from each other and Rumlow entered.

Bucky sighed, pushing the photographs away from him as he slumped back into his chair. He hated this feeling; like he was a child about to be reprimanded by his father. Though, Bucky didn’t really have a father growing up anyway, so maybe this was fitting. He knew he deserved it.

“Steve, just give me a second to—”

“There is _nothing_ you can say that can explain this!” Steve bellowed, slamming his hands against the table. Bucky flinched. “You could have compromised this entire investigation! Their defense attorneys could get the whole case thrown out if they can prove you have a personal bias against Rumlow!”

“ _This team_ is the one who told me to get close to her,” Bucky tried to bite back, though he knew his argument was weak.

“ _To get information,_ Buck, not to—” Steve bit his tongue, shaking his head. He let out a heavy breath as his right hand traveled to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose as his left sat planted on his hip. “Have you slept with her?”

“ _Jesus,_ Steve. No!”

“How could you be so stupid, Buck? Sneaking around with Rumlow’s wife…”

“ _Don’t_ call her that,” Buck grumbled, arms folding over his chest. 

Steve narrowed his eyes, scoffing, before he shot back, “that’s who she is, Buck! Seems you need some reminding that the woman you’ve been cozying up to is the _wife_ of the goddamn head of Hydra!”

“Well she’s not _just_ Rumlow’s wife!” Bucky growled defensively, slamming his fist to the table, and Natasha sent him a look of warning he blatantly ignored. “She was a professor at Columbia before Rumlow took that from her, did you know that? She’s incredibly intelligent and channels all of it into buying libraries full of first edition novels! It’s the only room in the house she feels _safe_ in. She’s a prisoner in her own damn home, Steve! And she’s—she’s nothing like Rumlow or Hydra or any of these people we’ve brought down over the years!”

Steve and Natasha shared a glance, but Bucky continued, the words spilling out before he could stop them.

“She’s _kind_ and compassionate and generous… She’s the kind of person who knows the names of the families that own her favorite bagel and tea shops. She knows about what’s going on in their lives and _actually cares._ She purposely buys from local artists and practically paid for a girl’s college tuition in commissions alone, well over asking price, simply because she wanted to see this girl smile. No one is like that, Steve. _No one._ But _she_ is. So stop fuckin’ tying her to Rumlow like she had any kind of say in the world she’s trapped in, because it’s bullshit!”

Bucky was near out of breath by the time he finished, but his blood was on fire. He stood from his chair, staring to pace along the kitchen to rid himself of the adrenaline in his veins. Steve was noticeably silent.

“You’re in love with her.”

It was Sam’s voice that broke through the quiet and it stilled Bucky in his tracks. He looked over to Sam as he stood in the corner of the room, still leaning against the wall, arm folded. There wasn’t an ounce of teasing or mockery in his tone, no pursed lips or jokes on his tongue. A simple observation. A catastrophic consequence.

Bucky let out a heavy sigh as he fell back into his chair. There was no point in defending himself, or lying. The people in this room knew him better than almost anyone. They’d see through it in an instant.

“He could catch you at any time. You know this, don’t you?” Steve said slowly, his voice admittedly calmer, laced with a concern that had been shielded by his frustration just moments ago. “Rumlow has killed his own men for far less offenses than this.”

“He doesn’t know.”

“That could change,” Steve warned. He pulled out the chair next to Bucky and sat down. “Did you—Did you tell her about—”

“No,” Bucky shot back. “Of course, not.”

He’d spent enough nights agonizing over his guilt of keeping the secrets of this case, his true identity from you. He at least deserved the assumption he hadn’t completely fucked over the entire investigation.

Steve nodded, crossing his arms as he sank further into his chair.

“Are you kicking me off the case?” Bucky asked tentatively, watching Steve from the corner of his eye. He didn’t have the courage to look at him straight on. He knew he’d fucked this up for all of them. He was the one in wrong, he knew that, but nothing about _you_ felt wrong to him.

“No,” was all Steve said.

“Have you told Fury?”

“No.”

“You going to?”

Steve sighed, shaking his head. There were only a few people’s confidence on this planet Bucky cared for and Steve’s was one of them. He should be able to rely on Bucky for everything, _anything._ They’d been friends _, brothers,_ since they were kids running around the streets with a football and looking for trouble. He’d had his back in their school years when Steve was still growing into himself and Steve had pulled Bucky out of one too many bad spots in college when he got his heart broken in shreds.

There was never doubt between them.

Not until now.

“We’re so close, Buck,” Steve exhaled, “too close to risk taking you out now. We’ve got the raid coming up next month and then you’re out. It’s just one month.” His eyes trailed from Sam to Natasha before they landed back on Bucky. “No one’s telling Fury.”

Bucky nodded, the wave of relief short lived. It lifted a bounder to find daggers underneath. There was no reprieve.

“You want me to stay away from her?” Bucky hated the words as they came out.

“No,” Steve answered, though he didn’t look pleased about it. “You change your behavior around her now and she’ll know somethings up. You need to just lay low, alright? We’re working on the raid at the shipyard for Cerberus. Until then, don’t make trouble. And don’t get made, Buck. I’m not losing you to fucking _Hydra_ , you hear me?”

Steve stood from his chair, his disappointment laced in his words and rooting deep into Bucky’s chest. It was made of fear, of concern, of worrying that his best friend might be distracted on the most dangerous assignment they’d ever attempted and get himself killed. He placed a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, squeezing it slightly; a reminder that while he was the leader of this team and thoroughly pissed, he was still there for his friend. It was difficult to keep the two worlds apart.

Bucky watched as Steve retreated to the back room, needing a moment to collect himself before they moved on to discuss the upcoming raid. Natasha followed him, knowing that she could help make Bucky’s case more than Bucky could. She was logical, calculating, and she’d known of his genuine affections for you long before anyone else. She’d made the call that he was level headed enough to do his job regardless.

Now, Bucky wasn’t even sure if he was.

But he just needed to keep his head down.

One more month.

Lay low and he’d be out. He could tell you everything and pray you wouldn’t hate him for it.

One more month.

_Just lay low._


	11. Ten

This _was not_ laying low. This was _the exact fucking opposite_ of laying low.

Red powder covered the pavement, faint clouds of pink mist up in the air as Peter stood far away from the fallout, the sleeve of his sweatshirt pressed tight over his nose and mouth as he looked at Bucky with wide, fearful eyes. The cardboard packaging on the ground, a crack in the side from where it had leaked. It sat in the small pool of water inside a rather large pothole, fallen from Peter’s hands.

“I didn’t know who else to call,” Peter explained, words stumbling together under the muffle of his sleeve, the panic evident in his voice. He was pacing, glancing back at the powder on the ground, to Bucky, to the box in the puddle. “Brock is going to kill me. _Oh God_ , he’s going to kill me and then Y/n and then probably you for helping and then he’s going to resurrect me and _kill me again!”_

“He’s not going to do any of that. Calm down, kid,” Bucky hushed, eyes still focused on the powder seeping into the pavement. It had rained just hours ago, the shine of the cement and rocks absorbing Hydra’s most coveted trade; Cerberus.

When Bucky looked up again, he found Peter had stopped pacing, his body completely rigid though his breaths were coming in short and rushed. He was scared.

Shit.

“Hey,” Bucky called carefully, gently putting a hand on Peter’s shoulder. He flinched under the touch, a jolt snapping through his small frame before his eyes met Bucky’s. With a careful breath, Bucky guided Peter’s sleeve away from his mouth. There was no need for that now. The mist had dissolved.

“I’ll take care of this,” he said sternly as he spotted the redness forming in the whites of Peter’s eyes. He sighed, making his voice softer, relaxing the tension in his own muscles. “You’re going to be okay, Peter. Take a breath for me. Can you do that?”

Peter nodded vigorously, jaw quivering, but he did as Bucky asked. The first breath came in shaken and shallow, like Bucky had seen in you the night your cousin was first dragged into this underworld. Peter tried again, gasping for a breath, though this time he got in more air. Bucky kept his hand on Peter’s shoulder, guiding him, exaggerating his own breaths to allow him to mimic the movement.

“Good,” Bucky soothed, squeezing at Peter’s shoulders until his heart rate started to go down. When his breaths were coming in evenly again, Bucky glanced back down the empty street in both directions. “Now, did anyone see you?”

“W-what?” Peter gaped, a little unfocused.

“Did anyone see you carrying that box?” Bucky asked again, slower this time, as patient as he could manage given the urgency. Peter shook his head. “Okay, that’s good. Where were you heading?”

“Mr. Pierce’s house.”

“What time is the meet up?”

Peter’s eyes widened, his breathing coming in too fast again. He made the mistake of looking at his watch. “Twenty minutes ago.”

“Okay, okay, kid. Hey, what did I tell you? I’m going to take care of this.” Bucky took a step back, but he kept a hand on Peter’s shoulder. The kid needed grounding and Bucky wouldn’t dare take that from him now. He had reason to be scared. Rumlow had ordered Bucky to beat men close to their last breath for far less than this.

This was nearly two bricks in the dirt. He’d bloodied a man for stealing half an ounce just a few months back. Bucky didn’t want to imagine what Rumlow would do to Peter for destroying two kilos of their most prized street drug. 

“Alright, here’s what we’re going to do,” Bucky started to with a deep breath, “you’re going to go home–”

Peter started to shake his head like he might object but Bucky raised a finger at him, silencing him instantly.

“You’re going _to go home_ ,” Bucky continued, firmer this time, “and you’re going to close all the blinds. Stay out of sight. I don’t care what you have to tell your aunt, but make it look like you’re not home. I’ll find a way to get Pierce his supply. I’ll—I’ll take it from the loading docks.” He was making it up as he went. Bucky never much cared for improvising. “The shipment should be here soon anyway. He’ll get what he needs. Was Pierce expecting you specifically?”

“No, I don’t—I don’t think so,” Peter replied quietly. He was wringing his hands, shifting nervously in his stance. “But, what about the supply you’re taking from the shipment? It’ll be missing.”

“It’s a risk, but I’ll see if I can blame it on a miscount.” Bucky was almost certain it would never work, but he needed to ease Peter’s conscious. The kid was about ten seconds from a panic attack again. “It’ll be fine, but I need you to get out of here, Peter. Let me fix this.”

Peter stood completely still; like ice and stone, firm as a statue.

“Peter,” Bucky urged again, giving a slight shove to the kid’s shoulder, “you need to go. Before anyone sees you. Go.”

Peter nodded, his eyes trailing back to the red powder on the ground dissolving to the pavement. Thousands of dollars’ worth of product. He took one last look at Bucky, the relief no more on his face than when Bucky had arrived. He turned to head back to Queens when he sucked in a sharp gasp, almost like a yelp as he flailed back hard into Bucky’s chest.

Bucky tried to stabilize him but the kid was shaking, scrambling to get his words out but they didn’t come in time.

“What do we have here?”

Adrenaline spiking, instincts taking over, Bucky shoved Peter behind him at the sound of Rumlow’s voice emerging from behind the shadows. He rarely made trips into the neighborhoods. He never should have been here, let alone in this part of town, and yet, there he was; decked in an expensive black suit and dark red Armani tie, accompanied by two of his guards.

Cold, dark eyes fell to the red powder soaking into the pavement. He brushed the toe of his wingtips against the evidence.

“Alexander Pierce has been calling me for the last ten minutes, screaming about his missing product,” Rumlow said casually, incredibly calm given the situation.

Bucky kept an arm behind him, shielding Peter.

Rumlow paced forward, hands clamped behind his back. “Alex is one of my top distributers in D.C., so it is important that he remains satisfied in our business partnership. I’m sure you can imagine my surprise when I get a call from the man, _furious,_ that he never received his personal supply.”

Bucky remained silent. He felt Peter grip onto the back of his jacket.

“Now, I know you’re not going to make me stand here and look like a fool,” Rumlow taunted, kicking the wet, cardboard box lying in the pothole. It tipped on its side and a flood of damp, red powder seeped into the puddle, turning it pink. “Someone _better_ start talking.”

He was staring right at Peter, tilting his head around to get a better view around Bucky’s shoulder. He had that kind of look on his face, one that Bucky had seen before in the eyes of cruel, malicious men before they committed atrocious acts of violence. Rumlow held no capacity for mercy or forgiveness.

With single wave, Rumlow gestured to his guards to advance on Bucky and Peter. As the tall, blonde guard with unsettling light green eyes stepped forward, Bucky took a step back, dragging Peter along with him. Peter would have fallen straight to the pavement if it wasn’t for his immensely tight grip on Bucky’s arm.

Rumlow raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

“It was my fault, sir,” Bucky said firmly, desperate to get Rumlow’s stare off of the kid.

Blondie stilled, sharing a look with Rumlow who signaled for him to stand down. Peter’s hand yanked on the back of Bucky’s jacket, desperate pleas, silent questions as to what he was doing, but he ignored it.

“I found Parker while he was on his run to Pierce. Something looked off about the box and I asked to inspect it. A car horn blared and caught me off guard. I dropped it in the water.”

Rumlow pursed his lips, shaking his head with a tsk on his tongue. He didn’t believe a word out of Bucky’s mouth, but Rumlow was not a man who cared for justice. He wanted a punishment doled out, to see vengeance paid. He didn’t care who it was to and Bucky knew that. He just wanted an excuse to channel his anger into a victim.

“So, you’re saying _you_ cost me $25,000 worth of product?” Rumlow challenged, staring Bucky dead in the eye. “Not the kid cowering behind you?”

Bucky nodded slowly, his teeth clenched so tightly it ached in his muscle. “Yes, sir. It was my mistake. Parker had nothing to do with it.”

“Okay then,” Rumlow said with a simple shrug and Peter seemed to relax behind him for a short moment. Bucky knew better than that. Within the same breath, Rumlow yanked a handgun from the back of his waist band, cocked the hammer and aimed it directly at Bucky. Peter gasped into the back of Bucky’s jacket.

“Time to take a fucking drive, Karpov.”

Bucky slowly raised his arms in surrender, stone cold in his expression, even breaths in his chest. He’d been in this position enough times in his years undercover to know what came next, to prepare for it, but Peter was a teenager, one who’d witnessed violence at the hand of a gun once before when his uncle was killed. He clutched onto Bucky’s jacket like it was a lifeline.

“Parker,” Bucky said quietly, not daring to tear his eyes from Rumlow, but Peter wasn’t hearing him. “ _Parker!_ ”

Peter pulled away, stepping back a pace from Bucky, his eyes darting from the guards to Rumlow, back to his protector. His breaths were picking up again, his lower lip trembling.

“Go home, kid,” Bucky ordered as cold as his voice could manage. He needed him to make a run for it before Rumlow changed his mind, but Peter was staring at Bucky like he was waiting for him to do something, _anything,_ to stop this. He was waiting for him to talk his way around what was about to happen or avoid whatever punishment Rumlow was brewing in his head, but there was nothing he could do. Bucky made his choice, followed through on his promise to the woman he’d give up everything for. He’d deal with the consequences.

But not before he could guarantee Peter was safe.

_“Get the fuck out of here, Parker!”_

The volume of his voice, the detached nature of it, was enough to shock Peter out of his daze. He blinked a few times, that same fearful look he’d had at Rumlow now directed at Bucky and while he knew it was only a result of the panic, the fear, it twisted deep into Bucky’s chest. Peter glanced over at Rumlow nervously one last time, before Rumlow waved the end of his gun with a roll of his eyes, almost in permission, and Peter took off sprinting. He didn’t look over his shoulder again as he disappeared into the night.

Bucky listened for Peter’s footsteps to fade into the faint accompaniment of crickets and gentle waves before he took in a breath again.

“I know you’re covering for the little shit,” Rumlow snarled once Peter was out of view. “I don’t know why and frankly, I don’t care. If he was anyone else, he’d be _permanently_ off the payroll but I’m sure you know my wife requires a bit more persuasion to hold her tongue as of late, so he gets to live. Lucky him. Unfortunately for you, I’m down $25,000 and I can’t punish Parker for it.”

Rumlow took a step forward, barrel of the gun inches from Bucky’s face. A testament of wills.

“Like I said, sir,” Bucky said slowly, adjusting his position and holding Rumlow’s stare, “it was my mistake.”

“Right.” Rumlow glanced back at his guards. He waved the end of the gun in Bucky’s direction before he let it fall back to his side.

Then, the two guards rushed forward; one yanked Bucky’s hands behind his back to hold him still while the other slammed a closed fist to the side of his face. It stung, heartbeat pulsing hard into his jaw, and he could feel the sharp course of blood on his cheek from where the guard’s ring in the shape of a disembodied skull had broken skin.

Bucky shook his head, shaking away the dizziness, before the second punch landed. Cooper pooled into his mouth and he spit a glob of it to the pavement. It hung down off his chin, warm and sticky, and he barely had the time to wipe it on his shoulder before the next fist collided to his jawline.

He didn’t fight back. He knew better than that.

He took another six hits before they threw him in the back seat of the car. One of the guards, the one with the mean right swing, sat in the back next to Bucky, a hand clutched possessively on Bucky’s shoulder. The other drove while Rumlow took the passenger seat, his eyes constantly flickering to the rearview mirror.

Bucky leaned against the window, blood smearing the glass as he tried to focus on the blur of city lights as they turned to covered trees. A haze of green and brown and the dark black sky fading together until they were nothing at all.

***

He must have blacked out somewhere along the way because the next thing he knew, the car door swung open and he fell out onto the driveway with a heavy thud. The tiny rocks in the pavement embedded into his shoulder and he tried to find his feet, but he wasn’t fast enough for that. Skull Ring yanked Bucky up by his collar, throwing an arm over his shoulders and dragged him the rest of the way.

He might have been able to stumble along himself if they gave him just a moment to focus, but Rumlow was never a patient man.

They shoved Bucky through the front door and into the living room, still draped over Skull Ring’s shoulder. Brock followed in behind and closed the door, shrugging off his jacket casually as if coming home from a long day at the office. Then, he turned to his men and started to give orders, something about a basement, but Bucky couldn’t make sense of most of it, not with the ringing in his ears. It was loud and vicious, so much so that he could hear his own heart pounding through his bloodstream.

But there was one thing that broke through the noise, something that snapped him awake, eyes darting across the room as his heart lodged straight up into his throat.

“Brock?” your voice called quietly, shaken. You were standing in the frame of the kitchen door, holding a steaming mug of hot water in your hands, though they were trembling like you might drop it at any second. “What’s going on?”

Bucky only caught your eye for a second before he hung his head, but it was still enough to see the panic, the fear rushing through you at the sight of him. He didn’t want to imagine what he looked like, hanging off the arm of Rumlow’s lackey, bloodied and beaten. He could still feel your stare even as he looked down at the floorboards, blood dripping from his lips to the hardwoods below, barely able to hold himself up on his own feet.

“Baby, _not now_.” Rumlow pushed past Skull Ring and Bucky, trying to usher you away from the living room but you planted your feet, surprisingly defiant for the devastation in your veins.

You pulled your arms from his grasp, unwilling to leave. It surprised your husband. You’d always escaped the room at the first sign of trouble; whenever there was even a glimpse of Hydra within these walls, you’d rush to the sanctity of your library.

But not now. Not today.

“Hey, boss?” The other guard, the driver with the large nose and bright blonde hair, gestured to the floor where a pool of blood was gathering, dripping down from Bucky’s nose.

“Shit,” Rumlow cursed, disgusted by the red seeping into the pristine hardwood flooring. “Get him to the basement. I’ll deal with him there.”

“The basement?” you repeated breathily. Bucky knew full well about the basement and the stories you’d told about the screams you’d hear in the dead of night from men who’d wronged your husband. It was a room few men walked out of.

As Rumlow attempted to slide past you to make his way to the basement door, you jumped out in front of him, blocking his path. “Is that necessary? What could he have possibly done, Brock? He’s your—he’s your right hand. You need him.”

Rumlow paused, dark eyes flickering from you as you stood in his way, back to Bucky as he struggled to stay on his feet. He smirked, his tongue running over his teeth as an idea formulated in his head. “You know what? Why don’t you come with us? I’ll show you what happens when someone costs me a paycheck.”

Skull Ring dragged Bucky down the stairs before he could wait to hear for your answer. His feet caught on the bannister and he almost tumbled the rest of the way down if Skull Ring wasn’t gripping his arm so tight that he might rip it clean off. He threw Bucky to the center of the floor, cement under his knees and stains of dark maroon littering the ground. He grabbed a tight hold of Bucky’s right wrist. Blondie came up and grabbed his left, keeping him positioned on his knees.

“Damn Karpov,” Rumlow chuckled as he made his way down the stairs. “You look like shit.”

Bucky spat the pool of blood in his mouth to the floor defiantly.

Then, you emerged from behind your husband in cautious, tentative steps as you eyed Bucky. You were trying to keep your distance, trying to control the red in your eyes before you cried at the sight of him; jaw clenched, nails digging into your skin. The worst you’d ever seen of him was the night you’d bandaged his hands and _he_ had been the one to dole out the violence. You’d never seen him as the victim.

“You see, baby,” Rumlow started, rolling up his sleeves, “ _someone_ destroyed $25,000 worth of Cerberus this evening. I’m sure you’re aware who was running product for me today, aren’t you?”

Your eyes shot to your husband, wide, and Bucky watched as your lips parted in shock, followed shortly but a wave of paralyzing fear. Your breath hitched, stopped right in your chest. You did not inhale again.

“Relax. Your precious cousin is fine,” Rumlow groaned, brushing you off before you could even ask. He made his way to Bucky and gripped a tight hold of his jaw. “Karpov here is taking the fall. Still don’t know why he’d cover for some little punk ass kid but frankly, I don’t care. I’m down $25,000 and _someone_ is going to pay for it.”

A hard pulsing in the side of his cheek nearly had Bucky collapsing to the ground if it wasn’t for the men on either side of him holding him still. You screamed at the shock of it and as Rumlow threw a second fist to Bucky’s cheekbone, your hands clasped over your mouth to keep silent.

Rumlow took a few steps back, shaking out his hand. “Now, pay close attention, baby. I want things to be crystal clear from now on. Tell your cousin if he fucks up my product again, I’ll beat him a hell of a lot worse than I will Karpov.”

You didn’t respond, but Bucky could practically hear your heart threatening to beat straight out of your chest. He sure as hell could hear the frequent, shallow intakes of breath as you nodded rapidly at your husband, stumbling a few paces back until you hit the bannister with a thud.

Bucky tried to catch your eye for a moment, to tell you that he was alright, that he’d been in this position before and survived. He’d come out with a few bruises and cuts, but _he’d heal_.

It didn’t matter how much of it was true, but he needed you to believe it. The fear on your face was enough to punch him through the gut without a touch from Rumlow or his men.

“Now,” Rumlow snickered, curling his hand into a fist, “let’s teach him a lesson, boys.”

***

Bucky had trained for this. He’d been an army ranger before he was recruited to the FBI. He knew how to take a few hits and withstand pain. He’d once been held prisoner by drug smugglers in Caracas and beaten within an inch of his life, but somehow none of it compared to this.

It wasn’t the pain that did him in or the blood pooling in his mouth he’d started to choke on or open wound breaking further with every hit. It wasn’t the blinding pulsing in his head or bruises sure to form on his wrists from where the guards were holding him down. 

It was your screaming.

Bucky had lost count of the hits but he’d broken through the sirens in his ears long enough to hear you begging for Rumlow to stop. His left eye was half swollen shut and the blood trailing down his forehead dripped into his good eye, making your figure red and blurry in front of him, but he watched as you darted out and grabbed Rumlow’s hand mid-air when he pulled back for another swing.

“Enough!” you yelled, voice cracking. You shoved your husband hard in the chest, forcing him to stumble a few steps. “He’s had enough, Brock! _Look at him!_ ”

Rumlow stared at you for a moment, jaw clenched, and Bucky wondered if the standoff between you and your husband might result in something worse than his own broken face, but then, suddenly, Rumlow started to laugh. It was an unpleasant sound, sinister and revolting. He stretched out his hand, his knuckles coated red in Bucky’s blood as he let it fall to his side.

“You’re right, baby,” he agreed, waving shortly at his guards who dropped Bucky’s arms, leaving him to crash down to the concrete in a heap, unable to hold his body weight up. “Sometimes I get a little caught up in the fun of it. Hell, maybe I was just showing off for my girl.”

When Bucky looked up again, Rumlow’s arm was snaked around your waist. You were tense; two hands on his chest like you were trying to push him away but knew better than to do so in front of his men. His fingers dipped into the edges of your hips, seeking lower along the curves of your spine and you sucked in a harsh breath. 

“Think you can have a little talk with Parker for me? Let him know what happens when he fucks with my product?” he cooed, voice low, almost charming if it weren’t for the red stained on his hands. You gritted your teeth, nodding slowly. Rumlow pressed a kiss to your cheek. He didn’t seem to notice, or maybe he didn’t care, that your whole body had become rigid as stone. 

“Good girl,” he sneered, praise laced in degradation. 

“What should we do with him, boss?” Blondie asked and Bucky felt the steel toe of a boot prodding at his shoulder as if testing if he were still alive, waiting for a reaction.

“ _Nothing_ , you idiot,” Rumlow snapped, stepping away from you enough to give you the opportunity to jolt away from him unnoticed. “Karpov is still _my guy_. He fucked up but he learned his lesson. Ain’t that right?”

Bucky nodded, though he was sure it came out as little more than a blink.

“He’s been nothing but an asset to this team since we brought him on,” Rumlow continued. “I’m not losing my right-hand man over this bullshit. He knows better than to cover for the kid again, doesn’t he? Problem solved.”

The guards stepped back, hands clasped in front of them. Rumlow kneeled down in front of Bucky, grabbing a firm hold of his chin, forcing him to meet his eye, or whatever he was able to given the swelling. Rumlow started to smile; a big, toothy grin, though it barely touched his eyes. Bucky wondered if it ever did.

“Damn, I really fucked you up, brother,” Rumlow laughed, releasing Bucky’s jaw with a forceful push. “You know what? Consider me impressed. Don’t know why the hell you’d take a beating like this for some snot nosed punk, but it takes balls; balls I guarantee these two morons don’t have.”

Rumlow started to make his way to the stairs, gesturing for his men to follow behind. He paused, his smile fading into something darker as he looked back at Bucky. “Don’t fucking pull that shit again with me, do you understand?”

Bucky didn’t say anything, but he didn’t suppose he had to.

You were still standing just a few feet away, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, staring down at Bucky like you might just break in two. He couldn’t quite tell if it was a scream trying to push its way through your chest or a sob or an all-consuming numbness threatening to pull you under, but you held your stance, back to your husband, nails digging into your arms.

“Deal with him,” Rumlow ordered to you. “Seems like the least you can do since it was your worthless shit of a cousin that forced my hand to begin with.”

You nodded, clinging to the faded fabric of your sweatshirt as you took a step closer to the stairs to watch as your husband ascended to the first floor. He was talking of going for Italian food, that he had worked up an appetite, and his guards were laughing, as if none of them has just committed assault and battery, as if they hadn’t just beat a man within several inches of his life.

Bucky realized then, he was struggling to get a breath in from the blood gurgling in his throat. 

The second the door slammed shut, you rushed at him; skidding on your knees as you scrambled along the cement, unbothered by the stains of maroon under you, and your hands darted to the sides of his face. Grasping a hold of him, trying to caught his eye through the swelling and the blood, but he winced, hissing at the sudden sensation and you pulled away quickly, cursing under your breath. Despite the pain, he missed it instantly.

“Oh God, James,” you exhaled, tears in your voice as you gingerly aided him to lean against the wall. He was heavy, heavier than you should be able to lift on your own, but you guided him towards the wall, adjusting his body as gently as you could manage. He was like a rag doll, body barely able to move itself as you tried to keep him steady.

Once he was situated against the wall, your hands began to hover over him, circling at his chest, his shoulders, trembling as you curled them to fists and held them tight to your body; you were afraid to touch him. Your eyes kept coming back to the steady stream of oozing red on his face.

“Y/n…” he mumbled, but not even he could make out the sound of your name on his tongue. A sticky, coppery substance dripped down the corner of his mouth.

“Jesus – _fuck,”_ you cursed, voice shaking. Your fingertips brushed at the blood as it passed his lips, trying to wipe it away but it only smeared down his chin, under your nails. You bit down to stifle a sob as it tore its way through your spine. “I need—I need something for the blood.”

You jumped back to your feet, scrambling around the room. Miscellaneous items fell off the shelves in your search as you frantically searched throughout the room, your panic evident in your murmuring under your breath.

“Where is it? Come on… where is it? _Where the fuck is it!?_ ”

Bucky tried to call your name, but nothing came out. He coughed on the blood pooling in the back of his mouth but found a sense of calm in the patter of your bare feet upon the cement, your hushed whispers to yourself.

Bucky sighed, closing his eyes as he leaned back against the cool surface of the wall. He found relief for a moment as his conscious began to drift, giving into the emptiness of a dark, painless embrace.

***

He didn’t know how long it took before you found whatever it was you were looking for, but the next thing he knew, you were kneeling back at his side again, dabbing his forehead with a soft cloth. It was stained red with tiny untouched white fabric on the corners. He swallowed, finding it a little easier now.

“Thought I lost you for a second,” you whispered. Your voice was shaken and you tried to mask the tremors in your hands as you cleaned the blood from his face, but it was of little use.

Bucky could barely see you, but you were positioned on his right, where he could watch you out of his only good eye. and for that he was thankful. His heart rate stared to draw out in even beats the longer he looked at you.

Your hair was tussled on top of your head in a loose bun, pieces falling out the sides and down by your ears. You were dressed in loose fitting pajama shorts and an old college sweatshirt a few sizes too big for you, the same one he saw you wear on one of his first days on this case as you skirted around your library in search of a book. Face free of makeup and eyes red with tears, reflective streaks dripped along your cheeks; you were nibbling on the ends of your lips.

There was blood stained to the sleeves of the sweatshirt.

“You really scared me,” you confessed, keeping your focus on his wounds, though you were holding back tears. You refolded the cloth to a clean side, though it was still faded in pink. “I’ve never—He’s never made me watch something like that before. I knew that he… I knew he was capable of it but actually watching him… and for it to be _you_ … I just… _God,_ why is there so much blood…”

Bucky reached up and gently wrapped his hand around your wrist, drawing your attention away from the wound on his cheekbone and when you finally looked at him, you broke into tears. 

“M’okay,” Bucky mumbled, his voice raspy and low, but it was audible.

You shook your head, kneeing back on your heels and brushing your hand over your face. Your skin glistened around your eyes, down by your cheeks, too. Your nose was runny and sniffling, and you were still so beautiful. Bucky wondered if it was part of his haze, the delirium kicking in or maybe the shock, but he’d always find ways to admire you.

“This is my fault,” you gasped, pushing the palms of your hands to your eyes and Bucky’s heart lurched.

“Don’t do that.”

He couldn’t get more than a few words out at a time from all the swelling but when he put his hand on your thigh, tracing small, delicate patterns, you let your hands fall away. Eyes trailing down to his hand and you quickly gathered it in your own and brought it to your lips. You pressed warm, gentle kisses to each of his knuckles, to the back of his hand, the inside of his palm, before you rested it on the side of your face, aiding him in cupping your cheek.

“You were covering for Peter, James. _I_ asked you to do that.” Fresh tears brushed over Bucky’s hand.

“I make my own choices,” he insisted, pushing through the rasp in his throat, voice still barely audible above a whisper but it was enough. Your eyes were still focused on the broken skin on his cheekbone. “I can handle it, sweetheart.”

You sighed, carefully setting his hand back against his own thigh as you picked up the cloth again, resuming your work.

“You shouldn’t have to.”

***

Over the next hour, you carefully cleaned and stitched each of the open wounds on Bucky’s face. You handled each one like you’d done it dozens of times before, though he was certain you were only putting on a brave face for him. The tremor in your lower lip masked by the sharp bite of your teeth did not go unnoticed.

The long cut against his cheekbone the worst of it, laying on top of a swollen well of tissue as you weaved the needle through his skin. He was numbed from the hits, so he shouldn’t be able to feel any of it, and yet, all he could focus on was the delicate touch of your fingertips over his nose, his jawline, his lips, keeping your hand steady as you furrowed your brow in concentration.

When you were done, the blood had long been cleared from his face; absorbed into the piles of rags lying beside you. You brushed your thumb over the stitches, ones you’d made him promise to get checked out by someone with a professional degree when morning came, but you’d done well enough. He was in one piece. The only evidence held in the slight swelling and discoloration forming on his face.

“I hate that this happened to you,” you whispered, letting your hand gently caress his cheek. You took a deep breath, chewing on the inside of your lip and trying to hide the tremor there. “I hate that you’ll go back to work for him tomorrow like none of this happened. I hate that he would have done this to Peter if it weren’t for you…”

“I told you, darlin’, I’m alright,” Bucky tried to reassure you, though you had trouble hearing it.

His voice was coming back to him, the strain in his throat going down. He gently brushed away a fallen strand of hair from your eyes, tucking it behind your ear, and setting his palm to lie against your cheek. He smiled sweetly at you despite the crack in his lip, his thumb brushing in tender strokes under your eyes to wipe away the wetness there.

“He’s a monster,” you said, voice strained like you were holding back tears again and still, laced in venom. “I hate him. I fucking _hate_ him.”

You grabbed Bucky’s hand from your cheek, curling it in your own. You kissed his knuckles again and he swore it might be his favorite feeling in the world. He’d memorize it, seer it into his senses. 

In your exhale, the breath was warm against his skin. “I don’t understand why you work for him. You’re a _good man_ , James.”

Bucky flinched at the name.

He thought of all the times he’d lied to you about who he really was, about the deception it took and calculated coincidences in the beginning of your relationship, how he’d manipulated you into giving information on Hydra and your husband, even though you gave it over willingly, you didn’t know the consequences of it.

“I’m– I’m not, sweetheart,” he shook his head, eyes casting down to the floor.

He thought of the times he’d followed Rumlow’s orders; how he’d beaten men into the state he was in now with little evidence for their crimes. It was part of his job, his assignment on this case, to give over pieces of himself – _his morality_ – to the identity he was assigned. It was how they brought down so many criminals without being detected. He’d done it dozens of times before, but things were different now.

Now, he had you.

“You don’t know the things I’ve done,” he continued, not giving you a chance to interject. “I’ve hurt people, Y/n. Worse than this. I’ve killed, too. I’m… I’m _not_ a good person.”

“Yes, you _are_ ,” you insisted, shaking your head. You reached out to cup the sides of his face and this time, it didn’t hurt, not with the wounds cleaned and stitched. You were impossibly gentle with him, like the touch of a feather to burning embers. “I know _your heart_ , James. The rest… it doesn’t matter. I know _you_.”

“I wish that were true,” he sighed, turning to press a kiss to the palm of your right hand.

“Why do you keep saying things like that?” Your hands slowly fell back to your sides. “You’re not making sense, James.”

Bucky swallowed and it tasted of copper. He reached out to you, hand brushing up against your neck, thumb tracing your jawline.

“Do you trust me?”

You narrowed your eyes, surprised by the question. “Of course, but—”

“Then trust me a little longer.” Bucky licked at the broken skin on his lips, trying to keep himself from spilling the truth to you right then and there; his real name, his history, the case he was building against your husband. It was nearly impossible with the way you were looking at him, with tears fresh in your eyes and this helpless kind of adoration nestled within the shimmer in your irises.

You seemed reluctant, wanting the answers you deserved, but you nodded, trusting him blindly as you did. He wondered if you’d come to regret that later. He tried not to think about it.

“I’ll take care of you, sweetheart, I promise,” he added upon noticing the questions brewing in the back of your mind in the slight bite of your lip. “I won’t let anything happen to you. You’re safe with me. Always.” 

“I know.”

Your voice was just barely a whisper, eyes flickering down to his lips before the returned to ocean blue. Bucky’s heart was pounding terribly in his chest but it was exhilarating. It sprung life into his veins, electricity through even the darkest parts of him, and he pushed himself off the wall, closer to you.

“James, be careful…” you exhaled, your voice made of silk and honey. He could feel your pulse beating under his fingertips; rapid thumps in rhythm with his own. They sang together, composing a symphony in line with your shallow breaths and the drizzle of rain outside against the small windowpane above.

He leaned in closer, his eyes studying yours for reasons to stop, but you gave him none; no excuses to pull away, no hesitancy or reluctance, you waited patiently for him. His nose brushed yours and he paused, eyes closed and reveling in the warmth of your breath in his skin. He’d been here before too many times, so close and never close enough.

With a short inhale and a breath of courage, Bucky leaned forward, capturing your lower lip between his own. Softer than he’d imagined. He felt you sigh against him, relief in the soft vibrations of your lips as you kissed him; a longing you’d shared for another for so long, it was like floodgates breaking open at a single touch.

It would have been rushed, desperate and heated after nearly a year of holding back if it wasn’t for the injuries he’d sustained; the cuts and bruises and swelling on his face. You were tender with him, careful of the cut on his lower lip as you pulled away for breath and began to press sweet, gingered kisses to the tip of his nose, between his eyes, his forehead, his temple, the stitches on his cheekbone, his jaw, healing him, _saving_ him, until he missed you so terribly he pulled you back to his mouth.

You smiled to his lips, a breathy kind of laugh against him, a relief in kissing him like it was where you were always meant to be. You tasted of dried tears and the chocolate peppermint tea you’d been steeping before he was thrown bloodied and broken at your feet. Your lips were like satin and velvet, smooth and tender against the throbbing ache of his cheekbone; sharp contrast in the delicacy of your touch to the violence he endured.

Then, your tongue brushed at the broken middle of his lower lip and Bucky hissed, sucking in a harsh breath at the sting of it.

“Shit— I-I’m sorry,” you gasped, pulling away breathless. There was a flash of concern in your eyes but Bucky started to laugh under his breath, shaking his head and suddenly, you were smiling too, grinning impossibly wide over swollen lips.

Bucky swore in that moment you’d never been more beautiful, not even in the lavender dress. Lips swollen and chest panting. Hair a little messier than before. A glimmer in your eye and the flash of concern breaking through the dizziness touching over your features.

“Don’t apologize for kissing me like that,” Bucky laughed under his breath, playing with the ends of your hair. He tugged you closer to press a final, chaste kiss to your lips.

“Don’t wanna hurt you,” you mumbled, smile brimming on your face as he pulled away.

“Not possible, sweetheart.”

You were staring at him like he might hold the entire universe in his hands. Maybe he did when it was you within his arms. His sun and moon and stars and galaxy.

Your fingers traced down along his jawline, feather light against the black and blue discoloration. It was like you were memorizing him, drawing him, touching tenderly along his edges and grounding yourself to him. 

“What are we gonna do, James?” you asked slowly, smile slowly slipping from your face.

Bucky could feel the heaviness of your question pushing down deep onto his chest. You brushed your thumb over the corner of his lips and he stole a kiss to the tips of your fingers. 

It wasn’t a question he could answer. You knew that. The two of you were already treading in dangerous water and now, the waves were growing higher, the clouds above erupting with thunder under darkened skies. A storm was coming; one neither of you had the power to control.

Bucky started to wonder if either of you would survive it.


	12. Eleven

The following morning, you found James again on the stoop of your front door, discoloration littering his face, hands shoved deep into his pockets. He tugged his bottom lip between his teeth as ocean blue eyes raked down over you, the steady stream of sunlight obstructed by his stance, a halo illuminating over his shoulders. 

But there was something darker hidden behind his stare, something that made you wonder what it would feel like for him to push you up against the wall, for his knee to part at your thighs and his hands to seek out the comfort of your warmth, to feel the full weight of his body and lose yourself in him.

A look like that was dangerous.

Especially with your husband standing just a few feet away.

You bowed your head and stepped aside, allowing James to enter your home, though you felt his stare linger as he slipped past. He knew the taste of your lips now. It wasn’t a kind of knowledge he could easily hide, not with the smirk on his face, even through the busted lip.

You stared at one another and you found yourself wondering, not for the first time, what he looked like under the layers of dark wash jeans and black t-shirts and bomber jackets he wore. You wondered how sculpted he was, where the lines of his muscles connected, if he’d keep biting his lip like that if you trailed your hand low enough down his stomach, if it slipped under the band of his jeans…

It took a moment before you remembered you weren’t alone.

“Ah, Karpov! It’s good to see your ugly mug,” Brock snickered from across the room, playfully almost, like he wasn’t the one responsible for beating bruises and scar tissue into James’ face. He sat in his usual thrown, sipping on a bourbon despite the early hour of the morning. “You still look like shit.”

James nodded, a humorless chuckle escaping him, though he pushed out a tight-lipped smile for you. He rolled his eyes dramatically as Brock turned to shout for Clara to arrange for breakfast and you struggled to contain the grin sneaking up your cheeks. 

“We’ve got business to attend to,” Brock said flatly, waving you off dismissively as he stood from his chair and made his way to the bar cart.

You gritted your teeth, knowing better than to challenge him after what happened the previous night. His hands were still red and broken at the knuckles, still carrying the evidence of what he’d done. He was purposeful in keeping them visible, without bandages, out in the open. It was a power move, to remind his men what he was capable of.

With Brock’s back turned to you to refill his glass, you brushed your fingertips along the outside of James’ thigh as you made your way to the back hallway, smirking as you felt a shiver jolt up his spine. James bit on his lip to keep from smiling, sending you a teasing warning look.

You winked at him before making your escape, your husband oblivious to what was happening over his shoulder.

In all the playfulness, the simple high of just being in James’ presence, it was easy to forget the world of barriers between you; a marriage certificate that held no meaning, an expansive criminal enterprise holding you hostage under threat of blackmail, and a violent, jealous man who saw you as little more than a possession he could dust off from the closet and flaunt to his friends.

It kept you from James, from running to him and letting him sweep you off your feet. It prevented you from kissing him the first second you saw his face again, from gingerly brushing fingers over his wounds and pulling him down into your arms, from whispering in his ear how much you adored him. It forced you to hold your affections to the shadows of this house, to keep them smothered and burning until you were safe together behind closed doors.

It was more than you’d had in years; this feeling.

You could vaguely hear James and Brock’s voices as you made your way down the hall to the library. Your fingers trailed over the edge of the wall, the cervices in the intricate hand carved detailing of the wood, and catching the dust from the designs. It didn’t much matter what they were talking about, but you gathered enough from their distant conversation to know a shipment was coming in at the end of the month. It was an important one, supposedly. It could sink off the coast for all you cared.

A slight buzzing in your pocket startled you as you stepped into the library. You pulled your phone from your pocket to find Peter’s face lit up on the screen; a large, toothy grin on his seven-year old face as he held up a skateboard and a missing front tooth. You smiled for a moment before you remembered the conversation you’d had with him near four in the morning, after James dragged himself down to a cab at the edge of the driveway despite your reluctance to let him leave.

The moment James’ cab disappeared down the end of the street, you raced up to your room for your phone to check on Peter. He’d answered on the first ring despite the hour of the night, apologizing profusely and sobbing so hard it was near impossible to make out what he was saying because he was certain that Brock and his men had killed James’ for his mistake.

It took you ten minutes to get him to calm down enough just to tell him that James was alive; a little worse for wear, but _alive._

You held your breath as you closed the library door behind you and answered his call.

“Hey Peter, you alright?”

“ _Areyousurehe’sokay?_ ” Peter blurted out before you could finish. You could hear the relentless pacing on the other end of the line, the slight squeaks of his floorboards and the shallow breaths muffling the speaker. “Because you said—you said he went home after—after what happened and he—he lives by himself, doesn’t he? So—So what if he got some kind of brain injury and went to sleep and just didn’t wake up? No one would know. We wouldn’t– _how would we know?!_ ”

“Peter, he’s–”

“God he’s probably lying dead in his apartment right now and it’s all my fault!” Peter cried out, ignoring your pleas urging him to calm down. You could practically picture him tugging on the ends of his hair until short brown stands fell out into his palms. “Did he—did he have family? I need to—I need to say something and tell them I’m sorry and–”

“Peter, hold on—”

“I can’t believe this is happening… I can’t believe I got him ki—”

“ _Peter!_ ”

He clamped his jaw, silencing mid-sentence.

“James _isn’t_ dead,” you said sternly, just enough to make sure he actually heard you. “I just saw him this morning. He’s standing in the living room talking with Brock right now.”

The gasp on the other end of the line alerted you to your mistake just as the name slipped past your lips.

“YOU LEFT HIM _ALONE_ WITH THAT MONSTER!?”

It took another five minutes to calm him down again.

It was a strange feeling, explaining to Peter the dynamics of how Brock operated. Even in the week since you’d learned from James that Peter knew of the underworld you lived in, you’d never even uttered the name Hydra around him; keeping it stored away behind lock and key, as if refusing to speak of it would somehow make it disappear from your lives.

Though, as you told Peter of Brock’s patterns of violence, how once he determined that his victim had enough and he no longer had the scalding heat of vengeance running in his veins, he put on that sadistic grin of his and moved on as if nothing happened, it seemed to help Peter calm down. You explained that Brock needed James, after all. He wasn’t as disposable as Jack Rollins had been. James was good at his job; remarkable actually, because he’d been the only enforcer to never once run into trouble with the cops. Brock had begun to suspect he had the feds on his own payroll and gave him a hefty raise for the initiative.

“It’s over with now,” you said, listening for Peter’s breaths to even out again. “Brock won’t bring it up again. He’s got it out of his system. It’s just how he works.”

A pause, a short exhale of a breath, and then, “y-you’re sure?”

“Yes,” you replied gently. You paced along the aisled of books, phone clenched in your hand until the muscles ached, your left arm crossed over your waist and gripping tight to your sweater. There was a lump in your throat, a painful burn that made it hard to swallow to picture him slump down onto his bed, the sniffles that came through the speaker. It broke your heart.

“I promise, Peter,” you added when you heard him start to muffle the speaker of his phone, the faint sound of him trying to hold back tears of relief piercing straight through to your chest. “James is alright and… Brock _won’t_ come after you. Do you hear me? Even if he tried, I’d kill him before he could.”

It startled you as you said it, but there was a certainty behind your words. There was no reluctance, no room for hesitancy or remorse. It was a matter of fact. If he went for Peter, you’d kill him.

“Is he mad at me?”

You narrowed your eyes, surprised by the question. “Pete, I told you that once Brock gets it out of his sys–”

“I didn’t—I didn’t mean _him_.”

You sighed, closing your eyes as you leaned against the aisle, surrounding yourself in the smell of old, worn paper and the cedar candle burning by the couch. You hadn’t even had a chance to talk with James about Peter beyond knowing the events that brought James to the basement in the first place.

Still, there was no hesitation when you told him, “James doesn’t blame you, Peter.”

“How can–” Peter took in a deep breath though it was shaken, his voice nasally like he was pinching at his nose, “how can you be sure? Y/n, he took that beatingfor _me_ and he barely—he hardly even knows me.”

A sudden touch to your hand pulled a gasp from your lungs and you turned to find James standing next to you. You hadn’t even heard the front door close at your husband’s departure, the gentle squeak of the hinges to your library, or his footsteps as he approached, but seeing him was like a relief all its own.

He narrowed his eyes quizzically, gesturing to the phone, as he intertwined his hand in yours. He squeezed it lightly before bringing your hand to his lips and pressing kisses to each of your knuckles.

“Peter,” you started, signaling to James who you were speaking to and while his smile didn’t falter, his eyes drifted down, a sadness taking over the waves of blue. “He’s here with me now. You can ask him yourself if you–”

_“No!”_

You froze, pulling the phone back to your ear. James nodded at you, letting you know it was alright and he bent down to kiss your shoulder.

“N-No, I—I’m sorry,” Peter stuttered, a grunt of frustration shortly following. “After what he did for me… he can’t possibly want to talk to me again…”

Your heart broke and James seemed to notice the pain seeping into your features. You imagined he heard Peter’s voice through the speaker as well because he silently gestured for the phone. He kept his free hand held firm in yours and while you were reluctant, you handed over the phone to him.

“Hey kid,” he said, and you could practically picture Peter jolting up from his bed in shock. “Don’t be mad at Y/n, I stole the phone from her.”

You smiled, leaning against his chest. He released your hand just long enough to wrap an arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer.

“Now, talk to me. I’m not going anywhere until you do,” James asked, a kind of gentleness in his voice that nearly brought tears to your eyes.

He offered you that sweet smile of his, silent encouragement wrapped between soft, pink lips, and you sighed of relief, leaning your forehead to rest on his shoulder.

As he spoke to Peter, conversation carrying on longer than a few minutes, James decided to lead you carefully back to the couch. He sunk down on the cushion nearest the armrest, guiding you to lie down beside him and rest your head on his thigh. His fingers ran along your shoulders, your back, through your hair, knowing how little sleep you had the night before. He was always trying to soothe you, draw out your tension with the tenderness of his hands. Selfless even in unconscious movement.

“You did the right thing, kid,” James said a few minutes later as he kicked his feet up to rest on the coffee table. “I’m glad you called me… _yes,_ even after what happened. I told you, Pete, I’m not gonna let anything happen to you.”

Despite drifting on the edge of sleep, you smiled against his knee, rubbing your hand along his shin to make sure he knew you heard him. The lazy patterns he was drawing on your shoulder paused for a moment before they resumed. You could hear his intake of breath, practically see the smile on his face.

You don’t know how long he ended up talking to Peter, convincing him it wasn’t his fault, reminding him that he had his back, working out plans for how to keep making runs in the future because they both knew better than to assume Brock would release Peter from Hydra now that it was clear he knew who he was working for.

When you woke, he was still on the phone. Though, this time, he was talking quietly in effort to keep from waking you, laughing under his breath as they talked about the friendly owner of Peter’s favorite bodega in Queens and the cat that simply adored James.

“I’m not going to be the godfather of that cat no matter how many times he asks me,” James laughed, his hand held over his eyes, leaving his bright smile on full display. “What am I gonna do with a cat, Peter?”

You yawned, stretching along the couch and slowly raised from James’ lap to sit next to him. You brushed back your messy hair and he turned to smile at you. His free hand reached up and he traced the lines of his jeans imprinted in your cheek with a slight chuckle.

“Y/n’s awake,” he said into the phone. “Yeah, of course… I’ll see you Friday, alright? Right outside your aunt’s house… It’s no problem, kid. You know why I do it… Here she is.”

He handed the phone to you and you wondered if it was possible to fall any harder for this man. You brought the phone to your ear, sinking down into the couch next to James and nestling into his side. His arm draped over your shoulder as he pulled you closer.

“Hey cuz,” you said, “you okay now?”

“Yeah, I think so,” he replied and you could hear the change in his voice instantly. His breaths were even again, his words steady, and you no longer heard the constant rustling of the bed sheets as he tossed and turned or the squeak of the floor boards under pacing feet. “I might go meet MJ for lunch downtown. Keep my mind off things. James said it would be a good idea.”

“Did he?” you grinned, hand settling on James’ thigh. You felt him press a kiss to the crown of your head.

“Yeah, he’s a good one, Y/n,” Peter sighed with a chuckle, the slight sound of him scratching at the back of his neck nervously on the phone. “He really cares about you. You know that, right?”

You bit down on your lip though it did nothing to stop the smile from pushing up your cheeks. You looked at James and while you weren’t sure if he heard Peter, he smiled back at you. You wondered, maybe, if this was what love felt like.

You hadn’t felt it in years and even when you thought you knew it with Brock, it hadn’t been real. It certainly didn’t feel anything like this; _this_ freeing, _this_ exhilarating, _this_ magical. Your relationship to Brock, even at its best, was dark and dull in comparison to James. Everything was, really.

“Yeah, I know.”

After you hung up with Peter, you noticed as you brought your phone down into your lap that the call had run almost an hour and half. You narrowed your eyes, surprised, before you looked to James.

“How long was I asleep?”

James shrugged. “An hour or so.”

“You stayed on the line with him that long?” you asked in disbelief, but James didn’t think much of it at all. It wasn’t a chore to him. Your family wasn’t something he just tolerated. He risked everything for Peter.

“He needed something to take his mind off of what happened,” James said simply. “Kid can really get on a roll once you ask him about how his science project’s coming along. Besides, I’ve got a bit of a soft spot for him. I mean, he’s partially responsible for all those Sunday afternoons we had. Remember?”

“Of course,” you laughed, thinking back to his terrible excuses and stupidly large grin as he tried to find reasons to let you be alone together. “Pretty sure he was working on the same ‘English paper’ four weeks in a row.”

“You won’t find me complaining,” James grinned. Though, he seemed to push it too wide because he hissed, flinching at the tug of a scar at the center of his bottom lip. He clenched his jaw, exhaling sharply through his nose. Your smile fell away in an instant.

While it turned out most of the swelling had gone down overnight, he was still left with dark purple and blue blotches on his jaw, angry red veins crawling out from the nasty cut on his cheekbone where he now had surgical glue in place of the amateur stitch job you’d done, and part of his left eye was bloodshot, clouding into the blue you adored so much.

He still looked like himself if you squinted your eyes, but it was enough to make your heart physically ache.

These were wounds he’d willingly taken to protect your chosen brother. He took whatever Brock threw at him because he was determined to spare Peter from harm; a boy he didn’t even know a year ago and yet, he allowed a vindictive man to beat him near to blackout all because of a promise he made to you.

That kind of devotion, the level of loyalty, was unlike anything else you’d ever experienced. It was a breath of air amongst smog and muddied waters. It was a first step out of the cold embrace of a darkness that had shielded you for years and into something warmer, kinder. It was a man with startling blue eyes and a smile that made your heart skip, a man who made you feel safe in a home where you were constantly searching for escape routes.

“I’ll heal, Y/n,” he reminded you, noticing the way you were staring at his injuries. “This kind of stuff is a casualty of the job. It’s not the first time this has happened and I don’t suspect it’ll be the last. I’m tougher than I look.”

His hand rested along your thigh, running along your jeans in comforting strides. You watched as he traced the mindless patterns, the slight scratch of his nails sending shivers up your spine. It was like second nature to him, to instinctively search for your own comfort to break through the tension burned into your muscles.

Pushing out a smile for him, you tried to mask the worry as it consumed you. “I’m just… I’m scared for you. Especially now.”

“Now?” he teased, raising an eyebrow. “Why? What’s changed?”

You pushed him in the ribs, laughing. Tucking your legs under you, you kneeled next to him on the couch, hands gripping at the collar of his shirt.

“How badly does it hurt?” you asked playfully and James had to watch how wide he smiled to keep from reopening the cut on his lip.

“Oh, terribly,” he answered, that boyishly handsome look in his eyes threatening to do you in. “Tell me you can help, sweetheart.”

“I can try.” A slight feigned roll of your eyes, a smile so big it pushed up by your eyes, and you swung a leg around his waist to sit on his thighs. His hands curled along your hips, holding you still.

“Maybe if I…” You leaned in and presses a kiss to his cheek, just along the tender scar and the adhesive glue, where it was still slightly swollen and red. It was feather light but you felt him sigh. “How do you feel now?”

“Still hurts, love. Try another?”

You kissed the scratch on his forehead where Brock’s ring nicked him on the third hit. Then, his left eye lid that held deep blue and black bruising under swollen tissue. You paid close attention to the discoloration on his jaw, gently peppering kisses along the tender muscle.

“You missed one,” he said as you pulled away. He had that dizzy kind of look on his face, one so sweet and loving it shouldn’t be possible for a man as dangerous and feared as James Karpov to possess. He touched his lips, the healed scar your husband had busted open on the fifth swing.

You smiled, leaning in slowly and pressing a chaste, unbearably short kiss to his lips. “How’s that?”

“Don’t leave me in pain, sweetheart,” James whined, shaking his head. “I’m dying over here and you’re the only one that can–”

Capturing his lips in your own, his words silenced on the touch of your tongue. You sucked his top lip between yours, still careful of his scarring on the lower, and sighed as you felt his hands imprint to your hips, tugging you closer.

As you kissed him, tongue brushing between his lips and against his own, he gently guided you to lay down on the cushions, his own body weight settling between your legs and on your chest. You didn’t mind. You liked the pressure of him, the safety of his embrace.

When he finally pulled back for air, he was grinning like a school boy, his cheeks rosy as he pressed a tender kiss to your forehead.

“How’d I do that time?” you asked, swiping your thumb over his lips.

“So good. Pain’s all gone,” he smirked, shaking his head enough for strands of tussled brunette hair to fall into his eyes. He settled in on his elbows, tracing your jawline with the tips of his fingers. “But maybe we should try again? Just to be safe?”

He smiled into your lips, the warmth of his breath on your skin. Under him, surrounding him; it was the only place you ever wanted to be.

***

Once you got a taste of James, you couldn’t get enough.

You were like teenagers again; blood pounding, hormones raging, sneaking into closets and kissing behind closed doors. The looks you shared across the room as he sat surrounded by Brock’s men had your cheeks flushed and lip tugged between your teeth. His eyes would follow you as you left the room and you felt the shiver of his stare long after you disappeared down the hallway.

You spent countless hours on the phone with him at night, sitting on your bathroom floor behind as many walls as you could put between you and your husband; sitting on cold tile floors with your laptop resting on the closed toilet seat as you watched old crime documentaries together.

You kept the phone curled up next to you as your eyes drifted shut under the bright lights of an Office marathon and James’ soothing voice lulling you to sleep through the speaker. The phone would usually be dead by morning, so you’d charge it in your library and wait for him come to you because always did.

The routine was simple. 

Check in with the boss first.

Wait for Brock to leave.

Then, he’d show up at your door, grin covering his face and he’d hull you into his arms, press your back against the aisle of novels and kiss you until books started to fall from the shelves. He wouldn’t stop until you were breathless and your lips were swollen, hair a mess and clothes wrinkled. Even then, he’d only move to kissing along your neck, your jaw, until he’d eventually find his way home to your lips.

Sunday afternoons were always sacred but now, you held his hand tucked under the table of a diner in Queens, you wrapped your arm around the crook of his elbow as you strolled through empty parks, he pressed a kiss to the crown of your head as you walked up the stoop to Aunt May’s house for dinner.

It was magic with him; domestic and instinctive, you fit to him like a puzzle and for once, everything in your life felt _right_. There was such relief in that, to feel at peace in your own body, to look forward to a new day and to chase something for yourself for once. You’d sprint towards James through rushing rapids and barbed wire and burning buildings. You’d cross everything and anything for him.

Clara had almost caught you nearly a week later when James had you pinned against the bookshelf in the back aisle of your library.

Lips tracing your jawline, thigh pressed right between your legs enough to leave you breathless on its own, when you heard the familiar squeak of the library doors open.

“Mrs. Rumlow?” Clara’s voice had called out into the room, leaving you to quickly shove James away in a panic.

Though he was struggling to contain his laughter, biting down hard on swollen, red lips, he’d reached out to adjust the collar of your sweater that had fallen down over your shoulder and to pat down the mess of hair on your head.

“One moment!” you yelped back, trying to brush the wrinkles from your shirt and catch your breath. You looked at James helplessly but he was grinning terribly wide and holding onto the bookshelf just to support himself on weak knees.

It was foolish, beyond dangerous, but you just couldn’t keep away from him. He was poison and remedy. He was life sustaining elixir and an omen of death. He was so much rolled into one, but he was good and pure, and of that you were absolutely sure.

You’d met Clara in the hall, quickly ushering her away from the aisle James was hiding in, and while she didn’t ask you any questions about the slight flush in your cheeks or the discoloration peeking out from under the collar of your sweater, she did tell you Brock would be home in a short while.

She’d left after that, closing the door behind her, and you stopped to wonder if she knew of your relationship – _or whatever it was_ – with James. Before you could let yourself fall into a spiral, strong arms enveloped you from behind, the warmth of a chest pressed against your back and James leaned in to kiss your cheek.

He was your safe place. You weren’t afraid, even in this home, if it was his arms you were wrapped in.

***

Bucky had learned how to smother his guilt and bury it deep within himself, back towards the darkest parts of his mind where he’d only find it creeping around in the dead of night. He swallowed the instinct telling him that this was wrong, that it wouldn’t just cost him his career, he could lose his team – _his family_ – over this, that he could lose you when the truth finally came out.

But he was happy for the first time in years. He remembered what it was like to miss someone so badly it ached deep in his bones, to want to be in someone’s arms at every hour of the day, to feel the chill of his bed beside him and wish for it to filled with a soft curves and warm skin and oversized t-shirts hanging down by knees.

He was in love.

He was painfully, blissfully in love.

It was going to get him killed.

His phone was buzzing constantly with texts from Natasha, warning him that he was going too far, that Steve was seconds away from pulling him off the case and hell to the raid that was scheduled in less a month’s time. Sam was the one calming Steve down, reminding him that without Barnes, there would be no case. That surprised Bucky, up until Nat informed him that Sam had also said, _‘if Barnes gets himself offed by Hydra for screwing with the kingpin’s wife, that’s his own damn problem.’_

Bucky was wrapped up in guilt and shame and love and joy and it was tearing him apart; not that he’d let you see. He was good about hiding things like that. It was part of his job description to wear and mask and lie through his teeth, but it felt so incredibly wrong when it was youhe was lying to.

So, he stuffed that part of himself into a box, closed the lid, and threw away the key.

It worked for a while, anyway.

For a while, he was sweeping you up into his arms and kissing you whenever he found a spare moment, running his fingers through your hair as you leaned against him on the couch reading, making you tea and holding you close on late nights when Rumlow was on business downtown.

For a while, the guilt was kept at bay.

Until he couldn’t hide from it anymore.

Your lips were on his, legs straddled over his waist as you pressed him to the back of the couch. His hands slid up your thighs, slipping under the hem of your shirt and touching over soft, warm skin enough for you to shiver.

He knew he should stop, that kissing you like this, that letting his hands roam under your shirt along your spine while you didn’t even know his name was _wrong._ He was screaming at himself to stop, to come up for air, to do something, but he couldn’t. He was lost in you. He was enveloped and surrounded by your touch, your kiss, your—

“ _James.._.”

The name left your lips in a whimper as you grinded down against his lap. It shook Bucky from his stupor and he became painfully aware of just _how much_ he was giving into you. He could feel how hard he was, with every movement, with every rut against him as you kissed hungrily at his lips. He was craving you, desperate for you.

Bucky tried to fight it off, but he flinched as you said the name again, your voice breathless and laced with need and it broke something in him. He pulled away from your lips abruptly, hands gripping tight to your hips to still your movements, and he rested his forehead on your shoulder.

“James?” you asked sweetly, concerned, and he clenched his jaw. Your hands wove into his hair, fingernails gently tracing along his scalp and down his neck, trying to nurse him back to you, but he remained still. “Are you alright? James?”

“Please,” he muttered into the sleeve of your shirt, “don’t call me that.”

Your hands paused for a moment and he could sense your confusion. How could you possibly understand why his own name felt like a dagger to his chest, a sharp and serrated blade twisted and digging deep within him?

He’d let himself indulge in kissing you, in stealing love from your lips and adorning every trace of exposed skin he could find with the tender care you’d been missing for years, but he’d never once let himself slip further than that. Not even when your hands trailed down to his belt and he was achingly hard, or when your fingers would reach for the hem of his skirt. He’d stop you, gingerly pulling your hands to his lips to kiss at your fingertips, and make up an excuse to leave.

There was a sacredness in being with you like that; bare beneath sheets, sweat touched skin against one another, the vulnerability of nakedness. He couldn’t allow himself to give into that before you knew the truth of him, before you had a real chance to reject everything he was.

You pressed a feather light kiss to his cheek, ushering him to meet your eye.

It was a mistake, he realized, to let himself catch even a glimpse of that impossibly kind way you studied him; the way you brushed your thumb over the healing scar on his cheekbone, grazing over lightly discolored blue patches on his skin, and the tenderness in your eyes.

He wasn’t going to last long if you kept looking at him like that, like you might love him as much as he loved you.

“Talk to me,” you requested gingerly, though there was a pleading in your tone.

You’d been here too many times before. In the moments he slipped, when he’d asked for time, when he’d promise to take you away, when his guilt of not letting you know him – _truly know him_ – bled through the cracks of his mask.

You were an intelligent woman. You knew something was wrong.

“I– I–,” he stuttered, but nothing came out.

“Whatever it is, I’m here,” you said softly, raking your fingers in his hair. “I can see you at war with yourself. Let me help.”

Bucky chewed on the edge of his lips, over the scar that had long healed. He thought about his team, his mission, the countless lives that had been lost because of Brock Rumlow’s leadership in Hydra, the families who had been run into the ground, and the hundreds of kids lost on the streets, addicted to a drug they’d never recover from.

There was a reason he was on this assignment.

He had a duty to uphold, a responsibility.

Rumlow deserved to spend the rest of his miserable life behind bars and he wouldn’t get there if Bucky couldn’t deliver on the evidence tying him to the Cerberus shipment at the end of the month.

He wondered though, if he needed to keep you in the dark to get that done.

“Not here,” Bucky whispered suddenly, determined. He pressed a kiss to your cheek and gently guided you off of his lap. He eased you onto the couch beside him as he leaned over the coffee table to pull out a pen and paper from the drawer. He began scribbling an address on the paper, grunting when the ink didn’t come out fast enough and he traced over the letters again.

You were watching him curiously, certainly confused, and for that, Bucky couldn’t blame you.

“Meet me here,” he said, handing you the scrap of paper. “Tomorrow night. Eleven PM. Rumlow will be out on a trade deal in Harlem then so you shouldn’t have trouble sneaking out. Tell the guards you’re going to Peter’s if they ask.”

You took the paper, shaking your head. “James, I don’t—What are you talking about?”

“Sweetheart, please,” Bucky asked again, patient as ever. “I promise I’ll tell you everything. I just… I can’t do it here. I need to get some things in order first.”

You still seemed hesitant, staring down at the paper, but you nodded.

He needed to go, needed to get a head start on convincing Steve of his plan and that would take time.

“I’ll see you there, alright?”

You bit on your lip, cautious eyes following him as he made his way to the library doors. He nearly slipped out before you jumped up from the couch and threw yourself into his arms; clinging at his waist and tucking your nose to the crook of his neck.

“I’m just a call away,” he said, holding you there with him and pressing a kiss to your hair.

“I know,” you mumbled to his shirt. “Just miss you when you’re not here.”

He knew the feeling.

You leaned up on your toes to kiss him one last time, chaste and gentle, full of the love that was burning bright in his chest.

“Tomorrow,” Bucky reminded you, uncurling himself from your embrace and peppering gentle kisses to your hands as he pulled away.

“Tomorrow,” you agreed and you stepped back into the library. You leaned against the doorframe, head resting against the wooden arch, watching as he started to walk down the hall to the front door.

He couldn’t tell if what he was feeling was relief or dread.

He supposed he’d find out soon enough.


	13. Twelve

It was pitch black outside; the only light surrounding you from the stream of your headlights and the cast of stars gently illuminating your path huddled by acres of trees. The countryside was untouched by the pollution of the city and it was almost unbearably quiet amongst the woods, with only low hum of your engine and the faint chirping of crickets outside the crack of your car window to fill the emptiness around you.

The ink hastily written on the scrap of crumpled paper curled up in your hand was smudged. You couldn’t quite make out if it was a six or an eight in the address, but your GPS had long abandoned you several dirt roads ago, so you supposed it didn’t matter much anyway. There was nothing else around for miles. 

When you finally pulled up to what looked like an abandoned warehouse, there was no relief. It looked like something out of a horror film. The paint was chipped on the walls, the name of the metalworks company faded under years of weathering and neglect, tiles of the roof were gathering in piles on dusted, dirt roads. There wasn’t a single light in sight.

You swallowed as you turned off your engine. The headlights stayed on, reflecting on the single silver door. It was rusted along the hinges and looked completely untouched.

You had half a mind to call James to help ease the steadily increasing rate of your heartbeat, but he had been very clear when he asked you to turn off your phone and leave it behind at home. He couldn’t risk anyone tracking your location, so he said. He was acting so strangely lately, but you could sense the heaviness weighing on him.

You didn’t have much in the range of weapons in your car, not that it would have done you much good, but you stuck your keys between your fingers as you pushed open the side door. The air was brisk, sending a chill up your spine as clouds of dried dirt puffed up in clouds with every step you took. You crossed in front of your headlights until you paused in front of the warehouse.

With a heavy inhale, one you weren’t sure you’d let go of anytime soon, you turned the rusted knob and locked your car. The lights flashed off, leaving you surrounded in darkness.

You quickly hurried inside, more afraid of the darkness of the countryside than the unknown of what laid beyond the door. The slam of the door to its hinges behind you was louder than you prepared for and you winced as it echoed through the rafters.

You glanced up to find a group of people stood at the center of the room, all huddled over a long metal table filled high with piles of papers. Their heads turned abruptly in your direction.

One of them separated from the crowd, relief evident on his face as he quickly jogged in your direction; hair bouncing around his shoulders with every step, a half smile on his face though it struggled to reach up by his eyes. Ocean blue, and swarming in something darker, something pulling him under.

_James._

But it wasn’t him you were looking at.

The inside of the warehouse was like something out of one of those spy movies Peter used to marathon on Saturday nights. The walls were lined with monitors, some filled with maps of the city, others with profiles and mugshots of men you recognized as friends of your husband, but the one displaying live security footage outside of your home caught your eye. 

You could see the driveway, the row of plain, well-kept bushes lining the pavement, the lights on above the garage. One of the security men you snuck past was on a lap around the perimeter and stopped to take a drag of his cigarette before he tossed the butt unto the grass.

An unpleasant shiver swept up your spine; cold and detached, and it nestled deep into your stomach.

“What the hell…” you exhaled, hardly able to take it all in.

You felt a hand graze your arm and you flinched, shocked by the sudden touch before you realized who was behind it. You turned to find bright blue eyes watching you cautiously as James chewed on the healed scar at the center of his bottom lip. He glanced sadly down at your hand, noticing the keys nestled between your knuckles and you quickly released them, slipping them into your pocket.

“I’ve got a lot to tell you,” he said quietly and there was a slight tremor in his voice, a nervousness, as he looked back to the group of people watching him from the metal table ahead of them.

“James, what’s going on?” you asked and he forced a smile to his face, one that was meant to reassure you, though he could hardly muster it.

“Come with me. I promise, I’ll explain everything.” He extended his hand to you, open and waiting, patient, and you studied the lines in his palms, lines you’d come to be familiar with, and suddenly you weren’t sure if you knew much of anything at all.

Still, you took his hand blindly as he guided you further into the room. He pulled out a chair for you at the table, just ahead of a particularly high stack of papers. You didn’t say anything as you glanced around at his friends and took a seat.

The tall, blonde man with broad shoulders and the clear line of muscles visible through the thin fabric of his t-shirt wore a slight frown on his face, though the way his eyes drifted to James protectively suggested he was concerned more than he was angry.

Beside him, slumped down into a chair of his own, was a dark-skinned man with a large, toothy grin, and dimples in cheeks. He smiled at you, like he knew something you didn’t, and you suspected that was more than the case because he was almost giddy with excitement, shifting in his seat and stealing looks at James.

“We don’t have much time before Rumlow finishes up in Harlem,” a red-haired woman to your right said.

You narrowed your eyes, recognizing her short, rounded nose, pointed stare, and perfect curve of a cupid’s bow on her lips outlined in dark red. She was familiar – they all were – like you’d seen them in passing but couldn’t place exactly where.

She pointed to a monitor behind you and you turned to find grainy footage of your husband sitting in at a table surrounded by men in suits you recognized from one of the dozens of parties he’d dragged you to over the years. It was from a Chinese restaurant in Harlem you got takeout from once with Peter. You gritted your teeth as you watched him clap a hand on the man beside him, throwing a wad of cash onto the table.

James nodded to his red-haired friend, pulling up a chair in front of you and turning it to face you properly before he took a seat.

“Where am I? Why am I here?” you asked tensely, unable to tear your eyes away from the monitors. You watched as one flickered from your living room to the hallway outside your library, to the staircase leading up to your room. Empty, haunted, in your absence.

A ruffle of papers to your left stole your attention and you found yourself staring at the blonde man with a file rifling through his fingers. A picture of your husband slipped out from the center and fell to the table. Even in his mug shot, his eyes held a kind of possessiveness, an arrogance, that transcended the page.

“Why do you have security footage of my house and—and Brock’s old RAP sheet?” your gaze flickered to the man sitting in the chair, watching you with a familiar kind of look in his eye, and then to the woman who was busying herself behind her laptop. You turned to James. “Who are these people?”

You could feel your breaths increasing in pace, the panic that was starting to take hold, but you stifled it down, buried behind closed doors and cement until it suffocated under the surface and all that remained was a vagrant stare and a jaw wired to stone.

James brushed his lips over with his hand, a heavy breath before he spoke again.

“I’ll be honest, I don’t really know how to say this.”

 _“Try,”_ you muttered out, voice like sandpaper. 

You didn’t realize your hands were clenched onto the bottom of the metal chair until your fingers started to ache. James’ eyes wavered down to your grip and he nodded quickly. Your heart was pounding so painfully, you wondered if he could see the thump of it through your chest.

He dug his hand into his pocket, let out a breath that looked near painful, and slowly set a shiny, golden badge onto the table. The shine of it reflected in the dim lighting of the warehouse. You dug your hands into the metal edges of the chair until you felt a sharp burn. 

“My name isn’t James Karpov,” he exhaled. Blue eyes flickered up to yours, gaging for a reaction on your face he wouldn’t find. He glanced back nervously at the blonde man pacing behind him before he continued. “I’m a special agent with the FBI and I’ve been undercover in Hydra for over a year now.”

Your features hardened over like stone, a protective layer to shield the surge of a storm thundering inside of you; the answer to a question you’d been suspecting for a while without realizing it.

You’d seen the way he flinched at his own name, how he got that kind of solemn look in the blue of his eyes when you talked about your husband, about wanting to escape it all, how he’d promised for things to be different _when_ _this was over_ , if he had _more time_. Pieces started to fall together and somehow you were still more lost than you’d been in years.

He paused, watching you, waiting for a flicker of the woman he knew to break through the blank stare currently consuming your features, but when nothing came, he let himself exhale. You focused on the soft footsteps of his friend pacing along the wall behind him. It was comforting to use his steps as a metronome, something to ground yourself because you could feel your world pulling apart at the seams.

It was a single string at the very edge of everything you knew. It only took a moment for it to unravel, within an admission of a name that was not his own, and soon the floor at your feet was covered in the broken pieces of what you believed to be true. Tattered and tangled threads.

“It started after Jack Rollins was murdered in lockup. I was assigned to this case to gather evidence against Rumlow and his men, so that we could dismantle Hydra completely; prevent it from ever coming back again,” he continued, his voice even, almost matter-of-fact, and it didn’t sound much like your James at all. It was too clinical, too rehearsed, and you could feel the sharp twist of a knife embedding itself deeper into your chest with every word he spoke. 

You listened quietly as he told you of when he first learned your name on a single page in the back of your husband’s file, how he’d known who you were before you even stepped foot into Brock’s office that first evening. He told you how he’d been assigned a cover, a new name and a history, to replace the role of Jack Rollins within Hydra as their enforcer. He’d been Brock’s right hand man for over a year and he was playing your husband like a fiddle.

“Director Fury thought it would be beneficial to the case to, um,” he released a heavy breath, as if the action in itself hurt him, “…to get close to you. He thought you might know more about Hydra’s dealings than you realized and he’d hoped you’d open up to someone who, um, you trusted. Seems he was right.”

You didn’t allow him see the way your heart caved in; jaw clenched, impossibly still, even breaths, and yet the floor had dropped from under you and you were free falling a hundred feet below. Lost to an abyss from which you were certain you’d never return; darkness barreling in and taking you home. It was where you belonged, wasn’t? It was where you had lived for years. Back to the fractured sense of safety, to the shadows lurking in the corner, to the eggshells under your bare feet made of broken glass. To lies and manipulation and deceit and ruin.

You wondered when it happened, when he’d been officially assigned to claw his way into your heart as if you were nothing but a pawn in the scheme of his mission. You wondered if it was before or after he’d gifted you _A Farewell to Arms_ and if it was evenhis at all; if the scribbles in the margins belonged to his youth or if it was the carefully constructed design of an analyst with the sole purpose of hooking straight through your heart and sinking you to the ocean floor.

That moment was the beginning of it all; when you showed him your library, your most sacred place _to a stranger,_ but it had felt so right at the time. 

_Was the first moment you’d felt safe with him a complete lie?_

There was always a comfort in being with him. A place for you to let down your guard and the walls you held up like stone around your heart. Beyond everything else, the one thing you knew about James Karpov was that he was safe. His presence was the only thing that allowed you to let go of the fear of the shadows of you home and the monsters lurking in the corners. He was a shining light in the darkness that had consumed your life.

You were young and naïve when you met Brock. You were eager for love and fell easily into his carefully constructed trap, overlooking obvious warning signs and the flaws of a man obstructed by the character he played.

For only a moment, you wondered if it had happened again, if you had become so foolish to allow yet another man to manipulate you and spin himself into the version of a man you’d desire until he could rip the floor out from under you just to see you squirm. 

A pang burned in your stomach, something stubborn and instinctive, one that urged you to just look at the man in front of you, to notice the way blue eyes nervously sought out your own, to see how his hands were trembling and his voice was strained, to notice that he was scared with every word he spoke. But your world had fallen apart and you could only do so much to stifle the scream bubbling its way through your chest.

So, you held your tongue as he told you about the orchestrated meetings in Brooklyn, how his friends – his _team –_ had helped plan what you thought were coincidences but turned out to be carefully constructed operations. Moments when you’d light up upon seeing him, a wash of warmth to your chest on even the coldest winter mornings, and it was a _lie._

You realized then why you recognized his friends; it was from the outskirts of coffeeshops, sitting under sunglasses and baseball caps, hiding behind newspapers in the distance. The quiet observers in your life pulling away at the last shreds of dignity you had.

“I was assigned a job,” James said tensely, clenching at his hands, wringing them painfully in his lap as he stared down at the cement under your shoes, “no different than jobs I’ve had before. Take on a new name. Be a new person. I’ve done… terrible things to preserve my cover, things I am not proud of. I’ve hurt people because Rumlow ordered me to. It was part of the job. I kept telling myself that, anyway. Didn’t seem to matter that I never killed anyone he put a hit on, that the Bureau stepped in to relocate my targets and hand me a look-alike that was mutilated just enough so Rumlow could have his proof and I could keep my cover. The blood on my hands is still real.”

There was a lump in your throat, one that burned and ached and was on the verge of choking you completely. You wanted to scream, or cry, or run until your legs gave out completely, but instead, you were paralyzed. Frozen in place. Stone of a statue. A single touch would crumble you.

“But you have to know it was _never_ an act with you, Y/n,” he urged, desperation in his voice. You could hear the grief in his words, the slight tremor in the dissonance, the fear that you might reject him in favor of a man who does not exist.

You could hardly meet his eye.

He paused, watching you for a moment, waiting, _longing,_ for you to tear your stare away from the wall beyond his left shoulder, hoping you’d find your way back to him as you always did, but you gave no inch. You held yourself still, unreadable, and he exhaled a breath that must have weighed immensely on his chest.

“After a while, I started meeting you in Brooklyn when the team wasn’t around, when there was no one to listen in and no agendas to fulfill,” he started, a little softer now as he slumped back into his chair. “I started staying at the mansion long past when I should have, just reading with you in your library because it was the only place I felt like myself anymore. I started forgetting that on Sundays in Brooklyn, I wasn’t who I said I was. You don’t know how easy it was for me to spend time with you and just let myself believe for a while that I really was James Karpov…”

Jaw wired shut, clenched, and you did not respond.

He sighed, a careful look back at his team and he continued.

He told you about the red-haired woman, Natasha, who turned out to be the sales associate from the boutique downtown where you’d bought the lavender dress. She smiled at you in acknowledgement when the heat of embarrassment stung in your cheeks.

You realized that the two men were the same Steve and Sam he’d tell you stories about on your Sundays together; old friends, brothers. A single grain of truth in a web of lies. 

“I knew, even before the gala, that my feelings for you had started to cloud my judgement,” he said slowly, laced with guilt, and your gaze flickered up to him, surprised, though he didn’t notice. You watched the shame seep into his features, his hands clenching at his pant legs. Steve and Sam turned away awkwardly as he continued, “I nearly told you everything that night. When we danced on the balcony and we almost–”

_Kissed._

You remembered it well. You had committed the night to memory; to the way his hands felt pressed so delicately to your hips, the gently sway of your bodies, the subtle scent of his shampoo and how warm his breath was as it touched your skin. It was a dream, a fairytale, and you wondered if it was just that; a moment meant for the stories in your library, far away from the cruel realities you’d come to know.

James sighed, a hand brushing over his forehead, pushing away the hair from his eyes and exposing the blush in his cheeks. He was staring down at the floor, chewing painfully on his lip. He didn’t notice the way your features had started to soften, your lips slightly parted as you watched him, heart racing.

“I didn’t know how to make it stop… the way I felt about you,” he confessed, a pained kind of humor in his voice. “I’d never compromised myself like that before. I’d always been able to separate myself completely from the case, where a mask and a new identity like a costume and manipulate my targets without remorse, draw on their strings and tug at their levers. It was _my job._ ”

You flinched; subtle, but as you unclenched your jaw you noticed a pair of green eyes watching you from behind a sweep of auburn hair. She smiled encouragingly before you turned back to James.

“But I never did that with you, Y/n, I swear it on my life,” James pressed, raking his fingers through his hair though it fell back into his eyes. “You… you found a way to push yourself through the cracks in these walls I built up and brought out pieces of myself I hadn’t seen in years. You made me smile again, and gave me something worth fighting for outside of my own damn ambitions, made me believe in a world where things could be different – _kinder_ , maybe. You made me want to be myself again instead of these characters I so often lose myself in. You made me want to relearn who _I_ was and stop hiding in the identities of my enemies.”

He rubbed at his eyes, pinched at the bridge of his nose, and exhaled a breath that provided no relief. “Steve almost threw me off the case entirely when he found out I’d started crossing lines between my cover and the man I wanted you to know me as.”

Your heart skipped at that, eyes flickering up to blue and you watched as he struggled to find his words. He was breathing heavy, hands constantly raking through his hair and there was a slight shakiness as he clenching them back into fists at his side. You’d never see him like this before. _Scared._

“Please understand, I couldn’t tell you any of this,” he sighed, scratching his nails along the thighs of his jeans. You noticed rather quickly that he stopped trying to meet your eye. “You have no idea how much I wanted to, how much it was _fucking killing me_ that I couldn’t, especially after–”

He clenched his teeth, stopping himself before he could say it, but you knew what he meant; the night he’d put himself on the line for Peter, how he’d kissed you through broken lips and everything changed. It was evident in the way his friends turned away, giving him space, red tips on the end of Steve’s ears.

“The director thinks I’m a damn fool for bringing you in on this,” he continued, “but, _I trust you,_ Y/n, even if I just destroyed any trust you had in me. I know _you_ and I know you want to see Rumlow brought to justice. I know you want to be free of him and for Peter to be out of Hydra’s control. I still know you and… despite all this, I promise, you still know me, too.”

He seemed to have finished as he allowed a deep, unsettling silence take over. You could vaguely hear the soft ticking of the clocks hanging high on the wall and the exhales of breath coming from across the room. He glanced back at his friends nervously, who offered him nothing but clenched jaws in return, before coming back to you.

“Say something… _please,_ ” he asked timidly, desperately.

There was something unpleasant churning in your stomach and you weren’t sure what it was; dread, humiliation, betrayal. Maybe it was something more like the edge of relief, so close you could just barely touch it but it wasn’t yours quite yet. Just beyond your fingertips but still there, still visible, waiting.

You swallowed, letting your hands unclench from the chair and you looked up to find his friends busying themselves with the paperwork on the table; various files on your husband and the company he kept.

You glanced over to the door, the weight of your keys heavy in your pocket. There was a pull urging you to the door, whispering in your ear like a siren’s call to leave, to run and never look back, and fall straight into the darkness you knew. It was familiar at least; a demon you knew by name.

But as you turned your attention back to the man in front of you, watched the way he hung his head in shame, accepting the worst of his fears that in your silence you’d rejected everything you now knew him to be, that call urging you to run seemed a little further away. Drowned out by the overwhelming urge to draw him into your arms, you could no longer hear the voice beckoning you away from the man you’d come to adore, perhaps even love, even if he was a man you weren’t sure you truly knew at all.

“I can’t, um, back off the case,” he started, clearing his throat as his words seemed to give out before he could continue, “but I can give you space. You won’t have to see me unless I’m around your husband. I’ll do what I can to keep my distance but—”

“Stop.”

He froze, head lifting abruptly at the sound of your voice. It was then you realized his eyes had glossed over, reflective with unshed tears, his lower lip nearly chewed raw.

You held his gaze for a moment, searching for the man you knew him to be within the shades of blue you’d come to know so well. The darkest part of yourself wondered if there were pieces that reminded you of your husband in there, if he held the same qualities that allowed Brock to manipulate you and lure you into a false sense of security and love and affection before he ripped it away.

But you’d seen the way James smiled at you from across the room. You’d seen the way the lines around his eyes wrinkled when he laughed. You’d seen the kindness nestled into every touch upon your skin, a warmth in his embrace you hadn’t known in years.

You’d seen grief consume him; pain and the guilt sweeping over his features as he told you the truth of who he was. Facets of a complicated man who was more than just one thing; subtle moments one could not easily fabricate. 

James was not just the man who lied to you. He was not only a man with a name you did not know and a history wiped clean. He was also the man who reminded you what it was like to laugh again, who reminded you that you were stronger than what Brock led you to believe and that you carried more worth than what your husband assigned to you. He was a man who took a beating that could have killed him to spare your sixteen-year-old cousin and gave over every Sunday he had just to listen to you talk and run errands around Brooklyn. 

He was messy and complicated, flawed but human. In the years you’d fallen under Brock’s spell, nothing your husband ever faked even compared to how James treated you. Brock had made himself to be perfectly designed, an impenetrable lie. 

James had been the one to break through his cover of his own volition. He had nothing to gain and everything to lose in doing so; the case, his team, his career… You wouldn’t dare allow yourself to wonder if you were within that list. 

You took a deep breath, steadying your gaze. “I have questions.”

His eyes widened, surprised, but he nodded quickly, brushing his palms on his thighs. “Anything. _Anything_ you want to know. Just ask.”

“So… you’re _not_ Hydra.“ It wasn’t a question, but you were still seeking confirmation.

“No,” he confirmed quickly. “I’m not.”

“You’re _not_ a hitman. You don’t kill people because Brock tells you to.”

“I’ve killed,” James replied sincerely, “but never for him. I was an army ranger before I was recruited by the FBI. I don’t take a life unless I have to.”

You nodded, trying to find your ground again now. Those were the easy questions, ones with answers you already suspected to be true. It was the next ones you were about to ask that held answers you were truly afraid of. You pushed out a deep breath through your lips, though it trembled on its way out and you felt the shake of it deep in your lungs.

“The copy of _A Farewell to Arms_ … was it yours?”

The question startled him, eyes narrowing for a moment before a soft smile curved at his lips. “Yes. Sam made fun of me relentlessly for digging through my ma’s house for it. I can’t say it had nothing to do with the assignment, because you did open up more after that but… I didn’t do it just because I thought it would help our case. I just thought you’d like it.”

You nodded, taking in his answer. It didn’t relieve the ache in your stomach, but it was something. A piece of the beginning was still intact.

“How much of it was real?” you asked, surprising yourself. The words stumbled out before you could stop them and it wiped the smile from his face almost instantly. It was like a punch straight to his gut, the wind knocked out from under him.

You swallowed, gripping painfully tight into your sweater and trying to avoid ocean blue eyes and the curious stares of his friends. You needed him to say it, needed to hear it out loud, or you might collapse within yourself entirely.

“The times you’d call late at night and we’d watch dateline over the phone or when we bought the lavender dress downtown or dancing on the balcony at the gala. All you did for Peter, every Sunday we spent together… Tell me it wasn’t just for the cover… to get closer to me so I’d tell you secrets about Hydra I didn’t know I had. Tell me it was _real…_ that it was really you and not some character you played.Tell me you’re real. _Please_.”

You didn’t realize you were crying until James – _not-James_ – threw himself down to his knees in front of you. His hands reached up to your thighs before he froze, hovering, because he didn’t know if it was okay to touch you anymore.

“Sweetheart, please, look at me,” he begged. He finally sat his hands against your thighs, just in an effort to ground you and when you didn’t flinch away, seeming to relax as your heart rate softened, he began to trace delicate patterns with his thumbs.

“Everything – and I mean this – _everything_ was real between us,” he implored. There was a redness in the whites of his eyes, a subtle tremor of his lower lip as he tugged it between his teeth. “There were some circumstances that allowed me to run into you when maybe I otherwise wouldn’t have, that let me spend more time with you, but _I swear on my life_ , nothing I ever said to you was scripted, nothing I ever felt for you was forced. Every second I spent with you was the happiest I’ve been in years. I won’t lie to you again. Not ever. Please believe me when I say that what I feel for you is real. It’s always been real.”

Sniffling back tears, you let him brush a hand up over your cheek to wipe the wetness away. His lower lip tugged between his teeth in concentration, purposeful to keep the rough edges of calloused palms from touching your skin. He was so gentle, so tender with you, and it was entirely _your James,_ even if he wasn’t.

“It was real, honey. The important parts, those were all real,” he whispered, his voice so achingly sweet it made your heart clench. There was a desperation in his voice, like the very foundation of his soul was etched into every word, his heart sitting within the dissonance. “I am still the man I was yesterday. I’m still him, sweetheart. You haven’t lost me.”

He smiled sweetly at you, though it didn’t quite make it up to his eyes. No, his eyes were filled with a remorse that consumed him whole. The guilt always sitting on the surface, the hesitation in his hands but the longing in his stare, the pain in the pleasure; it made sense now.

When you set your hands on his forearms, it startled him, his eyes darting down to where your touch met. Without a word, you let your hands wonder along his arms, sliding up his shoulders, his neck, to finally cup the sides of his face. Rigid muscles relaxed as you passed them by, his body caving into your touch with ease as his eyes fluttered closed, like he was sinking into the palms of your hands.

You just needed to feel him, remind yourself that _he_ was real, that he was solid and tangible, and right under your fingers. The slight bristles of his beard scratched under your palms, the wrinkles of a shirt creased in his drawers, the divots in his skin from old wounds.

You let out a heavy breath, grazing your thumbs along his jawline, over the healing scar on his right cheek and the discoloration that had long faded to a soft, light pink. Marks of a man who was everything you always believed him to be.

“I don’t know what to call you,” you confessed, a whisper of a smile touching at the edges of your lips and you felt it in your palms as he choked back a sob of relief, jaw trembling under your touch.

He nodded, his hands coming up to rest on your own as he turned his head just slightly enough to press a kiss to the heal of your palm. His eyes were red and glossy, but there was a smile on his lips; it was aching and tired, but it was swollen in relief, like yours.

“For now, just call me James.”

You shook your head. “It’s not your name.”

“It is, actually,” he countered, with a nervous chuckle. He gently pulled your hands from his face and set them into your lap, though he didn’t let go. “It’s technically on my birth certificate and it’s just a coincidence this identity and I shared it in common, but it’s not what my friends call me. It’s not what I want you to know me as when this is finally over.” He paused, a deep breath in a beat later, “I would… I would give _anything_ to hear you say my real name.”

You took in a deep breath, trying not to focus on the gravity of what he said, but it hit like an anvil to your chest. You wondered what his name was, how he might act around you without Brock hanging over your shoulder, how it would feel to be with him in the light of day; no restrictions, no hiding in the shadows, nothing holding you back from one another.

“You… you still want this— _us_ — when the case is over?”

James paused, a sad kind of heartbreak in his eyes that you would even ask such a question. He nodded slowly before he lifted your intertwined hands to his lips and kissed sweetly at your knuckles. “I told you, honey, everything between us was real. I’d give you my whole life if you asked.”

A tear slipped past your eye as a breathy laugh escaped you, a strange mixture of awe and surprise and relief washing through you. You stayed there with him, reveling in the feel of his hands encasing yourself, the touch of his lips to your fingertips, watching as he started to come back into himself, as the guilt faded from his eyes and he was smiling at you with that flicker of light in in the blue of his eyes.

James pulled up a chair beside you, freeing his knees on the hard, cement floors, and you tugged yourself closer to him; thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder. He was still _yours._

“So, what happens now?” you asked, glancing to the papers on the table curiously.

“Now,” a voice called from behind him, deep and commanding, and Steve stepped forward, setting a file on the table ahead of you, “you help us bring down your husband.”

You narrowed your eyes, intrigued, and pulled the file into your lap. You thumbed through the pages, eyeing the transcripts, glanced over names of men and women, over the date in the top left corner and the address of the pier scribbled in James’ handwriting.

You set the file back on the table. “You’re planning a raid for the shipment at the end of the month.”

It wasn’t a question and Steve seemed surprised by how quickly you’d gathered that from the information he presented you with. There was no doubt in your mind, you’d do anything they asked if it meant putting Brock behind bars where he belonged.

“What do you need from me?” you asked, hand seeking out James’ and he squeezed it back lightly.

“That we’ll decide when the opportunity presents itself,” Steve responded. “In exchange for your help in this and frankly, all the evidence we’ve gathered based on your unknowing intel… uh, _James_ ,” Steve cleared his voice, clearly having to remind himself to use the cover’s name, “has arranged for your immunity.”

Wide eyes met his and he offered you a shy, reassuring smile. The thought hadn’t even crossed your mind. You always assumed that the price it took to bring your husband down meant sinking the ship with you inside. You knew he held a number of charges over your head; it was why you stayed complicit for so long. But now…

“You just have to sign the papers,” James said, sliding a pile of folders across the table to you. There were two stacks and you looked at the second suspiciously before James answered your unspoken question. “I got the judge to sign off on immunity for Peter, too. It was part of my condition before I handed over the shipment log for the raid next month. Wasn’t that hard of a sell, honestly. Peter’s a good kid.”

Lost for words, heart pounding tight in your chest. “You– _what?_ ”

James nodded casually, a slight purse of his lips like he hadn’t just doused you in a relief you hadn’t known in years. “Yeah, well, no jury was ever going to convict him anyway, but I figured it was best to cover our bases. I told you I’d watch out for him, didn’t I? Wasn’t going to let you down on that promise. Plus, a kid as good as Peter didn’t deserve to be caught up in all of this. The judge could see that pretty easily.”

He was smiling softly at you but you could hardly breathe. You knew he cared for Peter. It was obvious the night he took a brutal beating for your cousin, but this was something else entirely. This was something far beyond his cover, the identity he wore like a mask, this was him at his core; a man who was true to his word, a man who was decent and kind and _good._

He was _your James,_ regardless of his name or the badge he wore.

Without the proper words to thank him, you surged forward, despite his friends standing at the table surrounding you, and kissed him. Hands pressed to his cheeks, lips communicating what words could not, and you only pulled away when you felt him searching for a breath.

His cheeks were burning pink, eyes a little wide as he nervously glanced up at Steve, who had conveniently turned his back. Natasha was smirking in the corner as she attended to the files in her hands, and Sam was sprawled out in the chair across the table, sparing no expense and grinning wildly as he winked at James.

“So, we bring down Hydra,” you said with a proud smirk upon your lips and James’ whole face seemed to light up. “We put Brock behind bars. We end this.”

Steve stepped out from behind the shadows, a hand extended in your direction. Stone cold expression melting into a soft smile, the blue of his eyes kinder than the façade he put forth.

“It’s good to have you on board, Y/n.”


	14. Thirteen

The air was cool as you followed James into a third story apartment of an old brownstone. Faded bricks lined up the street-side wall and a couple dozen plants in desperate need of watering sat under the windows. The hinges squeaked as the door closed behind you, a few scuffs on the interior and a deadbolt near the lock. You handed him the baseball cap he insisted you wear to obstruct your face and the heavy overcoat you borrowed.

James smiled nervously at you as he started to shrug off his jacket, watching the way you stepped further into the quaint, one-bedroom apartment. The couch looked to be a few years old, well-worn with use from the dip in the cousins and the faint discoloration of sunlight draped along the backrest. There were newspapers and mail piled high on the kitchen table, an empty mug on the coffee table in the living room, a sweatshirt hung over the back of a chair by the television.

It was so domestic, so genuine; a glimpse into the place where he felt most at home. Safe.

“It’s cute,” you commented, gesturing to the open floor plan that allowed you to step from the furthest end of the kitchen to the wall of the living room in less than ten paces. You touched the exposed brick along the wall by the fireplace, the slight prickles of the cement scraping your fingertips.

“It’s a closet,” James laughed, shaking his head. The edges of his hair fell into his eyes but he quickly brushed it away. “It’s nothing compared to–”

“Maybe I like a closet,” you said, cutting him off before he could even bring up the home you’d been kept locked away in like a prisoner. It was extravagant and spoiled in riches, but it was cold and unkind. You trailed your fingers along the edge of his couch, soft under your nails, as you made your way back to him. “It’s nice to see something that’s really yours.” A pause as he nodded, smile brimming on his face though his cheeks were flushed. “This is _your_ apartment, right? It’s not just part of the cover?”

James laughed at that. “Yeah, it’s mine. Bureau wouldn’t dare spend an extra dime to get _James Karpov_ a nicer place.”

You stood in front of him, tips of your fingers gently dancing around his own until your hands intertwined and you felt the bare warmth of his palms heat the chill of your skin. Leaning into his chest, you cherished the oaky scent of his shampoo, letting your gaze wander around the small, Brooklyn based apartment, that held so many clues to the real identity of the man whose heart you could hear thumping inside his chest.

Baseball cards were framed, but not hung, leaning against the wall on the top bookcase. Sneakers kicked off by the front door like he’d just come back from a run and didn’t quite have the energy to get them in the closet just yet. The manila envelopes stacked on the end table by the couch with coffee rings on the top.

There were a dozen pillows floating around between the couch and the love seat, an old woven rug placed underneath and candles sitting on the fireplace mantel. Photos hung on the walls of the faces you’d been reacquainted with just hours ago; their smiles beaming, mid laugh, dressed in what looked like matching softball outfits with ‘FBI’ embroidered across the front. All so exceptionally normal.

“Y/n?” he called softly, a strain in his voice that surprised you.

“Hmm?”

“You think you might–” he paused, a heavy breath out. “You think you might ever forgive me?”

You pulled back, startled by his question, to find him chewing on his lower lip, tugging at dried skin and trembling exhales past his tongue. Careful hands reach up to the sides of his face, thumbs tracing over cheekbones and grazing the scratch of bristles along his beard line.

“For what?” you asked gently. “For working tirelessly to put a dangerous criminal behind bars where he belongs? For being so impossibly kind and patient with Peter and treating me like maybe I was worth something more than just a trophy on my husband’s arm? For being the good man I always knew you were?”

You felt the muscles of his jaw clench under your palms, eyes darting down to the floor, but he stayed silent.

“So, I don’t know your real name,” you conceded playfully, trying to pull a smile from his lips, “and maybe you weren’t entirely truthful about what you did for a living, but, _James,_ tonight I found out that the man I love doesn’t blindly kill people for a living, doesn’t willingly work for the same _vile_ monster who trapped me in a marriage and threatened to beat my sixteen-year-old cousin within an inch of his life. You don’t need my forgiveness, James, because what you’ve given me is just… _relief.”_

You were smiling, weightless almost, and it surprised you to find him frozen under your touch. Wide eyes bore into yours, blue faded to dark grey in the dim lighting of his kitchen, and he slowly unclenched his jaw.

“What did you say?” His voice tense, almost aching, a little desperate and you stitched your brows at the center.

You pursed your lips, repeating the last thing you’d said. “There’s nothing to forgive, so you don’t have to—”

“Not that.”

You narrowed your eyes, confused.

“You said,” James started, unsure as he watched for your reaction, “you said you loved me.”

_Had it really slipped out that easily?_

You thought about it for a moment, considered the gravity those were held; that they hadn’t been spoken since they were told to a perceived notion of a man who never once cared for you in the way you’d believed. They were an act of manipulation, of deceit, and they had held nothing but disdain.

Until James. Until the beautiful man with a name you didn’t know and the bluest eyes you’d ever seen.

“Did I?” you exhaled; throat dry suddenly.

A flash of panic quickly crossed James features, a harsh breath in and he nervously stuttered out, “you can take it back if you—”

“No!” you blurted out without much of a second thought. You didn’t need one. This was something you were absolutely certain of. You tucked a fallen hair behind your ear and confirmed, “no, I… I don’t want to take it back.”

Leaning onto his chest, you could feel the rapid pace of his heart pulsing beneath your touch. The unsteady rhythm and the deep rise and fall of his breaths, the physical manifestations of the nerves rushing through your own body, though you waited patiently.

“Good,” he said after a while, like he’d needed a moment to find his bearings.

“Is it?” you teased, chewing on the edge of your lip.

He nodded, smiling growing on his face. “Will you say it again?”

“What?” you replied, grinning wildly and feigning confusion. “ _’The man I love’_ or _‘I love you’_ or–”

Lips on yours, a laugh in his breath and a smile etched to his cheeks, the words died easily on your tongue. There wasn’t anything quite like the way he kissed you, all warmth and comfort, wet and aching; he kissed like every touch of your lips might be the last time, like he had novels worth of last words to say and all he had was the gentle tug of his teeth to your bottom lip, the sweep of his tongue over yours, to convey what he was desperate to say.

“Any of it,” he gasped, breathless between kisses along your jawline. “All of it. Say it a million times.”

“Greedy, aren’t you?” Your stomach was aching with laughter, his lips kissing along your neckline, the crease of your jaw, your collarbone, and his hands roaming along your hips send goosebumps and tingles up your spine.

“Maybe. You should try it yourself sometime,” he teased, labored breath and stunning red color on his lips. Slowly, he cupped the sides of your face, and pressed a tender, chaste kiss to your lips. “I love you.”

You knew and yet your heart was threatening to burst straight out of your chest. It was in the way the plump red of his lips curved into that smile you adored, the winkles up by ocean blue eyes, dimples caved into his cheeks and the faint outline of scars he’d earned protecting the only family you had left.

“I love you,” he said again, followed by a kiss to your forehead. Lingering, gentle, and sweet.

“I love you,” and a kiss to your nose. Brief and chaste.

“I love you.” Lips on your clavicle. Warmer, open and wet.

“I love you.” He sank down to his knees, the wide surface of his palms resting ever so slightly in a feather’s touch upon your waist line, fingers pressing against skin hidden under your shirt.

You watched him, waiting under bated breaths, as he slowly slipping his hands up under the fabric, tracing along your spine. It lifted the edge of the shirt just enough for him to press a kiss to your stomach, just above your jeans.

A sigh escaped you, and you lifted your arms above your head, the tension burning in your skin as he took the hint without question, and slowly peeled the fabric from your body. Up and over your head, brushing your hair from your eyes and you quickly tried to tame it again, but he was smiling so wide you couldn’t be bothered to care for the flyaways.

“I love you.” A dozen times over and every time the words left his lips, silk and butter on his voice, it felt like the first time; it carried goosebumps prickling on your skin and shivers in your spine.

Coming back to his feet, his lips touched the hill of your breast, forcing your eyes to flutter shut. Though, when his tongue flattened, and the warmth of his mouth trailed down to your sternum, you gasped.

He grinned against your skin, knowing exactly what he was doing to you.

“James,” you tried, warning him to stop his teasing, but he hushed you.

“Shh, sweetheart, I’m not done.” His hands snaked up along the indent of your spine, over curves and edges, until his fingers touched the clasp at the back of your bra. His forehead rested on yours, a slight look to your eyes for approval, and with your nod, he swiftly released the clasps.

The material slipped down from your shoulders, straps hanging loosely down by your elbows and he slowly pulled the cushion away from your chest. It fell to the floor and the slight chill of his apartment pebbled at your nipples.

You moved to cover yourself, in the cold and the flush of embarrassment as his eyes had yet to leave your breasts, but there was something about the way he was looking at you; like you weren’t a prize to be won or a stake to claim. You were something of beauty, of astonishment, and the disbelief in his eyes, the genuine awe, allowed your arms to rest at your sides, leaving yourself open and vulnerable to him because for once, you trusted a man to keep you safe.

“So beautiful,” he murmured, fingers trailing around at your hips as he leaned forward to kiss your neck. His lips lowly peppering kisses down your collarbone, over your heartbeat, until he kissed the valley of your breasts. Hands snaked up into his hair, a slight gasp, as his tongue touched the hardened bud.

“I love you,” he whispered, heat of his breath against your breast and he wrapped his lips around the bud. Tongue swirling in gentle circles, teeth grazing ever so slightly over the sensitive peak, though never once in pain. You gasped, digging your nails to his hair and arching your back to the kitchen table.

His hands were everywhere; holding you still, caressing down your waist, anchoring you to the ground while his mouth pushed you high above the clouds.

He moved to the other breast, his right hand coming up to gently massage where his lips could not, a thumb brushing over the nipple, still wet and aching from where he’d left you.

“James,” you whined, a dull ache between your legs and you squeezed your thighs together in refuge. Your hands left his hair and he only smiled in response, sucking harder on the bud and pulling another shaky breath from your lips. Fingers gripped in tight to the edge of his shift, just above his shoulder blades, and you started to tug. “ _Off._ Take this off.”

“Whatever you want, sweetheart.” He bent down, let you tug the material up and over his head, discarding it to the floor next to your own. In the moment he tried to lean into you again, to pick up where he’d left off as if going even a moment without touching you – _kissing you_ – was pain within itself, you spotted a faint discoloration on his his chest, one that stilled you in an instant. 

“Oh God,” you gasped, a hand pressing to his shoulder to keep him where he stood. There was a heaviness in your voice as your fingers grazed over the raised, light pink edges of scars littering his chest, carving over his shoulders.

He paused, watching you nervously, the playfulness fallen from his face in favor of bated breaths and tension in his jaw.

Fingertips brushed over a particularly prominent one under his ribs, two inches wide, dark in color, like it had healed over a few times. It sat between his muscles, the dip between hardened lines of his stomach, and he shivered under the touch.

“Trafficker in New Orleans,” he said simply, voice low, a thick swallow. “I told you I’ve survived worse than a few punches.”

“You were shot,” you exhaled, hands shaking over the scars and he quickly gathered them in his own, kissing sweetly at your fingers.

“It was a long time ago, love. I’m alright.”

It looked years healed over, like maybe he’d opened the stitches a few too many times because he couldn’t simply sit still and listen to the doctor’s orders. It sounded like him to do such a foolish thing. Too impatient to care for himself when there was work to be done.

“Y/n,” he called gently. “Sweetheart, come back to me.”

Blinking a few times, you found yourself caught up in stormy blue. He smiled sweetly at you, kissing at your hands nestled gingerly within his own.

“I guess I forgot that your job is still as dangerous as it was yesterday,” you admitted, eyes darting to the ground. “But it’s worse than that, isn’t it? Being undercover where you are… it’s more dangerous than just being connected to Hydra.”

“It is,” he confirmed, slow and steady. He had no interest in lying to you anymore, that much you could tell by how easily he replied. There was no hesitation, no pause. His breath was warm over your fingers. “But we’re almost at the end of it. Just one more month. Until the shipment comes in. Then, we’re out.”

“I don’t know if I can last that long,” you confessed quietly and James quickly wrapped you tight into his arms. Chest to chest; skin to skin, and his arms enveloped you close. Hands trailing down the bare of your back, your cheek pressed to his heart.

“You can,” he said, the vibrations of his voice purring against your ear. “I’ll be there with you. You and me, love. I’ve got you.”

Tears blinked over your lashes, touching the skin of his chest. “I’m scared for you.”

“Hey,” he cooed, gingerly pulling you away just enough to see you face. He frowned at the redness in your eyes, the reflection of tears on your cheeks. A thumb brushed up over your cheekbones, carefully sweeping under your eye. “Nothing’s gonna happen to me, okay? I’m good at what I do. I’ve been on dozens of assignments like this and even when shit hits the fan, I still come out on top. I’m still the one walking topside while the bad guys are rotting in jail.”

“But Brock—”

“—doesn’t suspect a thing,” James sighed. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Just let me take care of you tonight, sweetheart; forget about all that waits for us tomorrow. Let me love you.”

There was so much on your mind; images of what Brock might do if he were to ever discover James’ identity, questions of how you were going to spend a month with the knowledge that could get him killed and lie to a master manipulator, fear that you might be the very reason it all comes crashing down. 

Your heart rate started to beat a little faster, breaths come in a little quicker, but you felt a slight tug on your hand that pulled you out from under the water.

“Come with me,” James asked, gesturing to the door at the edge of the living room. He had that beautifully sweet smile on his face, one that was exceptionally light and barely even curved the edges of his lips but it lit up bright in his eyes.

You nodded, following him as he guided you through the door. It was dark inside, walls baron white and he flicked the switch to a small lamp in the far corner of the room. It cast a light orange glow over the room, almost like the glow of a dim fire on the edge of extinction. It was just enough to see him; the curves and lines of his muscles and the slight dishevel of his hair.

“It’s just you and me tonight,” he said, gently sweeping your hair away from your shoulder and as his lips touched down along your collarbone. Wet and warm, tracing the bone to your neck. “There’s nothing else. It’s just you and me.”

You nodded, lost in the feeling of his tongue trailing your skin, sucking sweetly at the crevice of your neck until a sigh left you, one that ached deep between your legs. He must have noticed or perhaps it was the way you gripped at his hair or clenched your legs, but James carefully ushered you to the bed, helping you to lay down on your back as he hovered over you. His lips didn’t leave your body for even a second.

His hand trailed down along your stomach, finger tips dancing around the waistline of your pants, and he paused. No question needed to be asked, but one he sought an answer for anyway, and you reached down to unbutton the clasp yourself, slowly wiggling the jeans down your hips and kicking them off the edge of the bed.

A hunger grew in his eyes as he began crawling down your body, peppering kissing along the way; your neck, your breast, stomach, hipbone, until the warmth of his tongue touched over the fabric of your underwear. 

“We’ve waited long enough,” you whined, simply wanting him and you were certain you were aching and wet enough from the tension alone. You could feel the gathering pool between your legs, the shift of it when you moved your thighs, the dampness of the fabric.

“There’s always time for this,” he purred and he pressed an open-mouthed kiss to your clothed core.

You gasped, hands quickly gathering in his hair, yanking and pulling, though it only seemed to make him laugh. He likely imagined you were just sensitive. It had been almost eight months since you allowed Brock to touch you, though even in his best efforts it was never like this. He was a selfish lover, using your body for his own desire.

The truth was, a man had never kissed you there before, over or under the material covering the most vulnerable, most sensitive parts of you, and James was one that seemed to revel in the privilege of it. He hooked his fingers under the waistband of your panties, a quick look up to you in wait, and with your nod, he slid them down your legs, discarding them with your jeans.

In the cool air of his bedroom, you tried to squeeze your legs closed, but strong hands curled along the insides of your thighs, holding you open and expose. Fingers dug into the soft skin of your legs and though you strained against him, there was give, enough that you could have overpowered him if you really wanted to.

“Easy, love,” James mewled, lips grazing over your inner thigh, slowly skimming up along your curves until the heat of his breath touched your core and a jolt rocked through you. He chuckled, deep and low, and the vibrations of it trembled through you.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, kissing sweetly at the very edge of your leg, right along the curve, and he moaned when your nails dug into his hair. Your eyes fluttered shut just at the sound, the way he rutted against the mattress, his arms snaking around your thighs and caging himself to you.

“I love you,” he said again, teasingly, as he pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the very place you’d been aching from, clenching around air in anticipation, and your free hand wrapped tight to the bedpost behind you.

“Shit, James, I—” You couldn’t find words, couldn’t string more than a few together because suddenly, his tongue licked a long stripe through your folds, lapping up the wetness and swirling it around your clit with the tip of his tongue. You gasped as he sucked the bundle of nerves between his lips, sliding two fingers easily inside of you and stroked at your walls.

You could feel his grin against you, the satisfaction of you withering and whining under him. His hips jutted along the bed with every gasp he pulled from you, with every pump of his fingers, and lick of your clit. You’d never known a man to enjoy this the way he did, to find his pleasure in your own.

It was too much. It wasn’t enough. It was heaven.

“Ja—” you bit down on your tongue, your walls clenching at his fingers and he tongue didn’t let up for a second. Your hips moved against his hand, riding him, seeking more because his fingers just weren’t enough.

The peak found you before you were ready for it and you cried out, hips chasing at his fingers as he held you down, sucking furiously at your clit, until the gaze started to subside. A warmth spread through you, limbs heavy and tired, and you’d only come once.

“Come here,” you gasped, tugging gently on his hair as he looked up at you, cheek resting on your thigh, content to stay between your legs for an eternity.

He grinned, slowly crawling back up to you, kissing cervices of your body along the way; the curves that you hid under layers of sweatshirts, the parts of your body that felt used and put on display for a man you despised, now reveled, adored, by a man you so desperately loved.

“Hi.”

You laughed, kissing him on the lips, tasting the tanginess on his tongue. “Hi.”

There was a boyish look on his face, one of a playful kind of awe. “I love you.”

“Yes, I suspect you do,” you teased, smiling up at him. Your hands trailed down his chest, down past his scars, to his jeans where you started to fumble with the clasp. “Show me some more, won’t you?”

“Show you a lot more than that, sweetheart,” James winked, leaning back onto his knees. He straddled over your waist, slowly unbuckling the waist of his jeans. He was teasing you, grinning wildly as he watched the impatience form on your features and you sat up, sliding your fingers between his jeans and his hips, and tugged.

“Need you,” you murmured, pulling down just enough, but paused to let him take the step to fully show himself to you. You looked up at him, wide eyed and eager, chest panting a little, still high from the dull ache between your legs.

“I know, love,” James said sweetly. He pushed himself off of you and quickly removed his jeans, his boxers sliding down along with them. When he stood again, adoringly beautiful kind of smile on his face, he didn’t seem to mind when your eyes lingered downward.

Thick and heavy between his legs, standing against him almost painfully hard, with a drip of precum gathering at his slit. He stepped towards you and you watched how it jolted with his movements. Slowly, James crawled back over you, nestling between your legs as his cock brushed at your slit.

“Wanted you for so long,” he whispered, pained in his voice as he tucked his nose to the crook of your neck. “Loved you for so long.”

“I’m here,” you sighed as a hand slipped up into his hair scratching at his scalp, the other running along his back, tracing over hardened scars and exit wounds, the line of his spine. You pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I’m yours, honey. I’m yours.”

His cock brushed along your core, sweeping over your clit and drawing a moan from you. James shivered, a tremble chasing up his spine as he kissed along your jaw, slowly finding his way back to your lips. You brushed the hair from his eyes, meeting ocean blue for a moment under parted lips, and he set his forehead to yours.

His cock edged at your entrance, tip pressing between your folds and into your cunt. You took a breath in and before your exhale, he slid deep into you in one smooth push. He stretched at your walls, a slight ache you had expected quickly melding into a burning desire.

“Move,” you gasped, barely able to get anything else out.

James slowly pulled his hips back, enough so his tip just barely left you before he sank back in. Hot breaths on your neck and he rutted his hips again. The tension of it, the pressure of his width, the touch of his pelvis to your clit; it was like fire and flames, the clearest water, it was refuge and salvation.

Arms wrapped at his shoulders, his chest flush to yours, you lifted your legs, heels pressing to the backs of his thighs to urge him forward with every thrust. All you could take from him, every inch, every touch, every gasp, you wanted it – _craved_ it.

This man, this beautifully selfless man, who volunteered his life to live in the shadows of his own name, to spend each day behind enemy lines at the right hand of the country’s most vile criminals, who managed to help you find pieces of yourself again. He brought hope back into your life. And love.

“Ah- _ah, James…_ I’m—I’m close,” you whimpered, nose scratching along the rough bristles of his beard.

You could hear his heavy pants, the low hums of a moan in his voice, and he snaked a hand between you. His fingers touched your clit, circling gently at first before picking up in pace and pressing down, the pressure pushing you closer to the edge.

“Let go, sweetheart,” he whispered breathily, kissing sweetly, almost innocently, to your cheek. “I’m—I’m right behind you. Let go, love.”

Losing rhythm, his hips chasing his own release as your walls clenched around him, impossibly tight, and your nails dug into his shoulders as you touched cliffs. Running to the drop off, a free fall into the open sky to only clouds and heaven below, you jumped.

Legs gripped tight around him, arms trembling as you held onto him, rocking through the high pulsing down at your core and sweeping through you. James’ breaths were labored, uneven, as he held himself up on the slight shake of his forearms caged around you.

Then, as you leaned up to kiss tenderly at his neck, he released inside of you. A few slow, drawn out thrusts before he stilled, collapsing in his haze and sinking you to the mattress. Full, wet. You gently ran your fingers through his hair as he caught his breath again.

“I’d like to be able to call out your actual name, you know,” you teased, light and airy and cheeks flushed as he slowly raised his head from your chest.

His lips were swollen red, a line of sweat on his forehead, and he chuckled. “I told you James _is_ my name.”

“Not the name you want me to know you as,” you added, remembering well what he’d said in the warehouse.

He nodded. “Soon, sweetheart. I can wait.”

“Not sure _I_ can,” you shrugged playfully, looking away from him out to the window of his apartment to the stars littering the sky and James started to laugh.

“Let me keep loving you like that and you might just test my patience.”

“Maybe that’s my goal.”

He laughed again and you swore it was the most beautiful sound you’d ever hear. You could have spent forever like that, held under his weight, pressed to cotton sheets that smelled of him, full between your legs of the man you so adored.

But he slipped from you, gone before you were ready, and you whined as he stood from the bed. He chuckled at your reaction, bending down to kiss your forehead before he disappeared to the bathroom. The running water of the faucet carried into the bedroom and you settled against the mattress until he returned; the remnants of his release sticky along your inner thighs.

When he returned, he held a washcloth in his hand, warm as he aired it out and steam filtered around it. He touched it to his face first, testing the temperature, before he slowly bent down and ran it along your leg, almost teasingly, until he tenderly wiped along your thighs and pressed it to your center. You sighed, eyes fluttering shut from the lingering sensitivity, and he gingerly cleaned himself from you.

When he was done, he discarded the cloth back to the bathroom with a quick throw and settled in the bed beside you. He held out an arm, giving you space to curl up against him, cheek pressed to his chest, arm draped over his stomach, fingers tracing over a faded scar along his shoulder he told you was from a bad encounter with a slumlord in Chicago.

It was a dream to hold him like this; to be so close you touched every part of him, to be free enough to say the words as they came to your mind, to not have a filter on each movement, to feel _safe._

“I’ll have to take you back soon, you know,” James said reluctantly after some time. You felt a kiss press to the crown of your head.

Your heart sank, knowing he was right, that the sun would be up soon and your husband would inevitably return from the ‘business venture’ downtown he’d taken a side trip on following his meeting at the Chinese restaurant.

“Just let me hold you a little while longer, won’t you?” you asked, trying to hold back the lump in your throat, the impeding reality that would come for you soon enough.

“Anything you want, sweetheart,” James sighed, his breath warm against the bare of your skin. It left goosebumps in its wake. “Within these walls, I am completely and entirely yours.”


	15. Fourteen

Restraint was never your strongest suit. 

Certainly not when it came to biting your tongue around your husband or feigning even a semblance of the loyalty he so desired from you. But this? Pressed up against the wall of your library, books falling from the shelves as James snapped his hips to yours, chasing highs and withering gasps, pushing you to an edge of sweet relief; _this_ was something else entirely.

There was no holding back. No ability to control the need for him when he walked into the room, the desperate ache between your legs, the unsteady twitch in your hands until you could feel the hardened build of his muscle under your touch. It ran like heat in your veins, a flush in your cheeks, and it couldn’t be tamed unless his arms were around you, his lips on your neck.

In the safety of an empty home, he took you on the couches, in your bedroom, pressed flush against the kitchen counters, in the bath – though that had caused quite a mess; laughing together as water splashed up and over the edges, pools of soapy bubbles on the tile flooring.

Lips on one another the very moment your husband left through the front door, the closing of its hinges a gate to your sanctuary.

You’ve seen James make love, knew what it was like to be touched with a gentle fever, to feel his adoration in every movement of his hips and the heat of his breath to your skin. You knew him when he was soft and tender, when he pressed sweet kisses along your collarbone and slowly rocked himself inside of you. He encapsulated every rush of emotion inside of you, the words you couldn’t find as you neared the brink, watching as his eyes fluttered shut and he struggled to catch his breath; unequivocal power over one another, never abused, never threatened, but as ends of the same rope.

He was yours, and you were his.

But you’d come to learn, in the shadows of this home, that he was capable of much more.

Pushed into cramped closets, on the cold floor of your bathroom, in the locked dressing room of a department store, in the car parked at the very end of the driveway far away from the security cameras… James _fucked._

Rushed and needy; rough and desperate, when your time together was limited and he was reminded that you _weren’t_ his, not yet, not in the way either of you wanted.

He left marks; finger prints in your hips and bruising on your chest from his own lips. You left scratches on his back; some surface level, others leaving angry lines in their wake he’d come to wear like a badge of honor. Colorful evidence of the love you shared.

Though as James would pull back slowly, coming down from his high, he’d take one look at what he left behind on your body and a shame would sweep over his features, eyes darting away from you, until you pulled him back for more.

They were markings you could easy hide, you’d tell him, before you begged for more.

There was a terrifying moment in the warm afterglow of a Sunday downtown, when you’d forgotten the hand that was intertwined so casually into yours as you stepped up to the front door of your home, a feeling you’d become so accustomed to you hardly thought to pull away as you stepped inside, and Clara stood waiting by the kitchen to prepare your supper. You pulled away in an instant, heart stammering, words caught in your throat, and James froze. Though, you could have sworn you saw a curve pulling at the corner of her lips as she turned into the kitchen.

You were treading on paper thin ice over rushing rapids. Walking a tight rope over the open mouth of a volcano. Standing at the edge of the tallest building and looking down at the heavy traffic below.

It was dangerous to give in to each other the way you were. Risky. Reckless, even.

But restraint was never your strongest suit.

***

One week before the shipment and Brock was none the wiser. He kept to his business meetings with men in black suits in the living room with scotch in his hand, coming home in the early house of the morning with disheveled hair and his tie undone, dragging men down to the basement where they’d emerge hours later on the back of his cronies and covered in blood.

There were a few occasions he tried to sneak a hand along your hips when you passed by to the kitchen, and while it left James with copper on his tongue, he managed to hold himself back. It wasn’t anything you weren’t used to, but you imagined seeing your husband touch you so freely and knowing how much you despised it, left behind a bad taste in James mouth; especially now that he knew what it was like to touch you in the ways Brock carelessly stole in passing.

Those nights, when you’d sneak down from your room to find James waiting in the kitchen moments after Brock left for the evening, knuckles clenched over marble countertops and tension like stone in his shoulders, you’d remind him exactly who’s hands you wanted on your body, who’s lip on your skin, who you so clearly loved and adored and you’d give yourself to him over and over again until neither of you remembered what it felt to have anyone but each other.

Two weeks full of loving him in the shadows of this house, of crying out a name that wasn’t entirely his own, of laying with him on the couch in your library curled up against his chest, of a new, unbridled kind of happiness you hadn’t known in years.

Two weeks of digging through your husband’s drawers, in the cracks in the wall of his office, and gathering the evidence James hadn’t been able to acquire. You’d written down testimonies of the countless nights you’d seen the unconscious bodies of men he kept under his payroll being dragged, bloodied and beaten, from the steps of the basement, of the times you’d walked into the kitchen to find him meeting with prominent city officials and businessmen. You’d recorded firsthand accounts of every criminal misdeed you’d ever witnessed, including the days he jaywalked across 5th avenue.

You’d even brought James and his team dozens of files hidden in a loose floorboard in Brock’s bedroom; copies you’d made while he was downtown, ones James didn’t even know existed. You placed them on the table at the warehouse in front of the wide-eyed expressions of his friends and explained that these were the logs of everyone on his payroll, the accounts of who was where and when.

Sam had almost yelped out in excitement, covering his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. Natasha was grinning as she gathered several papers in her hands to begin taking notes. Even Steve had cracked a smile, a slight shake of his head as he bent down to pick up a roster with a notable name listed at the top: Alexander Pierce.

James sat back in his chair, a little stunned, though he was beaming. A hand brushed down over his mouth as he glanced up at you, hands on your hips and a proud kind of grin on your face that made him question why he hadn’t brought you in on this sooner.

It was the first time you’d felt a sense of purpose in years.

You’d come to spend most of your nights at the warehouse. Whenever Brock left for his business meetings, you’d find a way to sneak out to the abandoned factory to meet James and his team. You’d spend hours curled up on metal folding chairs, shivering under the breeze of the empty space until you finally gave into James’ constant requests to hang his sweatshirt over your shoulders. Your eyes would grow tired from reading and your hand aching from writing, until Steve would eventually send you home with a grateful nod.

It made for long, sleepless nights, but you supposed you wouldn’t find much sleep until all of this was over, anyway. There was no rest while you knew that in every moment James stood next to your husband, acting as the right-hand man of a monster wrapped in Armani suits, his life was in danger.

***

_BANG!_

_BANG! BANG!_

_BANG! BANG!_

_BANG!_

Six piercingly sharp gunshots on your left snapped your attention back to the redhead in front of you. One right after the other. Echoing through the enclosed room and stammering a jolt in your chest, leaving you winded. 

Natasha eyed you, carefully pulling back the ear protectors and set her handgun on the table. The paper outline of a man’s silhouette sprung forward on the line until it swayed within reach. She’d hit the bullseye in every shot.

“I thought you were paying attention,” she teased, watching the way you glanced back through the window to James. He stood around the table with Steve and Sam, arguing about the stack of papers thrown about the room. He ran his fingers through his hair as he slumped into a chair, ruffling it messier than it was before he attempted to tame it. You smiled.

Turning back to Natasha, you found her raising an eyebrow at you. “Sorry, huh?”

“You wanted to learn how to shoot, didn’t you?” she smirked, reloading the magazine.

“ _James_ wants me to learn how to shoot,” you said, leaning against the counter beside her.

You watched as she disassembled the gun, quick, reflexive movements as the pieces flowed through her hand like clay, like she commanded them entirely. This was her world; the chaos and violence and deceit all part of a life she chose. She chose to live in the shadows and give over pieces of herself to a cause bigger than herself. Sam, Steve… _James_ … they all did.

But Natasha, she was one you’d come to spend most of your time with in this warehouse. She was the one showing you basic self-defense skills and throwing you to the ground while James watched from the sidelines with an expression varying from amusement to defensive, depending on whether Nat was letting you have the upper hand.

She was small in frame, petite, with the kind of beauty where most men would easily overlook her intelligence. She was a fighter, a warrior even, and there was a part of you that envied that. You wondered if she would have stayed as complicit to Brock as long as you had or if she would have stood up to him, challenged his bluff and faced the consequences. She didn’t seem like a woman who would tolerate a cage.

You glanced back through the window, watching as Sam kicked back into his seat, piles of papers stacked on his lap as he set a mug of coffee on the top. It was a balancing act and Steve quickly swooped in and removed the coffee before a caramel ring could stain the documents. Sam grumbled, shooting him a look with a roll of his eyes while Steve made his way to James.

Sam was sweet, funny, and he had the kind of charm that could make you smile on even the worst day. He fought like brothers with James and they relentlessly teased each other, but he cared far more than he let on. In the moments that counted he was always there, that much you could tell simply by the way he watched James under cautious eyes when he wasn’t looking.

Steve, the leader of this team, wasn’t as stone cold as he appeared to be. He smiled often, broke more rules than he followed, but he was disciplined. Anything less than success wasn’t an option, because the alternative was a member of his team – _his family_ – being exposed in the field. You all knew what that meant and the consequences it brought.

You realized then, as you watched the three men gathered around the table, silently reading through the dozens of documents you brought them, that you seemed to know something more about these people you’d only known for a few weeks than you knew about James.

“Nat?”

She glanced up briefly before turning back to the assembly of the gun. “Yeah?”

“Is there… um… Is there a reason I’m allowed to know your name and not James’?” You bit on your lip, feeling nervous suddenly as the clicking of metal ceased in her hands. “You, Steve, Sam… Do you… Do you not trust me to know? Does _he_ not–”

“Y/n,” Natasha urged quickly, cutting you off before you could spiral. She set a hand on your forearm before you realized it was shaking. “It’s not safe for either of you if you knew. Imagine if you let it slip accidentally, especially around Rumlow. It would expose his cover instantly _and_ the fact that you’re working with us. We can’t let that happen. It’s been dangerous enough as it is with you knowing what’s going on.”

You nodded, exhaling a heavy breath as it weighed in your lungs.

“James trusts you,” she added, tilting her head just enough to caught your eye. She smiled at you; perfect pink lips curving up along her mouth like she was carved from stone. It wrinkled up by the green of her eyes, a laugh on her breath. “That man doesn’t let down his walls easily. He doesn’ttrust people and he keeps everyone at a ten foot distance. It’s why he’s so good at this job. But, he trusts _you_. He did from the very beginning and he won’t do anything to compromise this case, Y/n. There’s too much riding on it now.”

_Now._

Since he realized he loved you.

Since you fell for him, too.

There were a lot of reasons – good reasons – that Brock deserved to spend the rest of his life in jail, but you wondered whether James motivations to put your husband behind bars overlapped with his promise to free you from this life. They were one in the same. You’d never be able to be with him, not the way either of you wanted, if Brock was a free man; still forcing you to submission of his will, holding Peter for ransom, and caging you to that house.

“Everything okay in here?”

You turned to find James standing in the doorway, concerned eyes studying your sudden change in demeanor, the tension in your muscles and the slight tremor in your grip around the gun. Then, his eyes flickered to Natasha and you could tell by the way his features started to harden, lips curving to a frown that he was drawing conclusions he shouldn’t.

“I’m fine,” you said quickly, but it was too late for that.

“Nat, will you give us a second?” he asked and Natasha sent you a short, apologetic smile before she slipped past James and jogged the rest of the way to meet Steve and Sam at the table overlooking the files.

“I really am fine,” you tried again as he closed the door behind him.

“I think I know you better than that by now, love,” he said softly, a slight ache in his voice. There was a guilt there, a shame, and it didn’t sit right in his tone. It didn’t belong there.

“It just…” you sighed, “it scares me when I’m reminded of how dangerous this is for you. If Brock finds out…”

“He won’t.”

“But if he does,” you stressed, tears brimming in your eyes, “he’ll kill you. He wouldn’t think twice about it. He’ll kill you, James, and I… I _won’t_ survive that.”

James took in a heavy breath and you watched how it filled his chest; broad shoulders moving with each inhale, a dip in his sternum with his exhale. He crossed the room to you, gently prying the gun from your grip and setting it on the table. He warmed your hands in his own, kissing at your knuckles, trying to simply pull the tension from the joints with the tenderness of his touch.

“He would,” James confirmed and it caused a hitch in your breath, “but he’s not going to find out. I’ve been doing undercover ops for years, Y/n. I’ve never been made. Not once. Besides, we’re only a week away. We just have to bide our time. We’ve gotten this far. I need you to trust me on this.”

“You know I do.”

“So, trust that we’ll get this done,” he said slowly, a sad kind of smile on his face as he tried to find your eyes again. “Trust that I’ll get you through this.”

“It’s not me I’m worried about,” you admitted weakly, staring down at the floor to the cracks in the concrete, the wingtips of his brown shoes under navy slacks.

“I know, sweetheart, but I swear to you, I will do everything in my power to finish this so I can come home to you.”

James enveloped you in his arms, tucking his chin over the crown of your head, pulling you in to nestle into the crook of his neck. He was warm and soft despite the hardened layer of muscle on his chest. In his arms you could imagine a world where you would love him out in the open, away from the shadows, hold his hand in the streets and kiss him on the sidewalk.

It was a fantasy, a world you could easily get lost in, and for the first time in years there was hope that it might actually come true.

“Alright,” you conceded, though the word felt heavy on your tongue.

James smiled softly, a lingering sadness behind his eyes, and he slowly stepped behind you.

“Nat get you shooting straight yet?” he teased, lightening the air as he ran his hands down your arms. You were grateful for the quick change in subject.

He reached around you and set the grip of the gun in your dominant hand. His chest pressed to your back, the heat of his breath touching your hair and you let him mold your grasp to the gun. It was easy to lose yourself in the feel of him; the warmth of his hands as he adjusted your positioning, placed your finger above the trigger.

“Don’t think I’ll ever learn to shoot the way she does,” you admitted.

“Long as you hit the target, it doesn’t matter,” James replied with a slight chuckle. 

He guided your hands in front of you, arms taunt, running his fingers along the curves of your forearms, sliding up your biceps and over your shoulders. Slight pressure, steadying muscle, his touch drew a line down your spine, tracing the power of your stance. Gentle fingers gathered your hair from in front of your shoulders and swept it to your back, away from your face as his nails gently grazed along your skin.

You tried to suppress the shiver that followed.

“Pull the trigger on your exhale,” he instructed, his breath warm on your neck, voice impossibly low, silky, like it was dipped in chocolate. “Concentrate.”

He stepped back and a chill swept your spine in his absence.

You took in a deep breath, eyeing the target; a dark black bullseye with three rings surrounding it positioned on a large, white sheet of paper at the other end of the room. You’d managed to hit the edges before, bullet holes amongst the sea of white.

You repositioned your stance, released the tension in your shoulders, but kept a firm enough hold to prepare for the kickback. On your exhale, your pointer finger wrapped at the trigger and squeezed.

The kickback shot straight to your shoulders, but you held it firm. It hurt more than you remembered from your last training with Natasha, like a heavy jolt through your bones. The feeling was unpleasant, the echo of it pulsing in your ears, because this wasn’t your world the way it was theirs.

You quickly flipped the safety back on and set the gun on the table, pushing it aside. When you looked back to James, he was grinning, arms folded over his chest and extenuating the hardened lines of his biceps. He nodded to the paper and you realized, which quite a bit of shock, that you hit within the circle.

Certainly not the bullseye, but it was in the third ring. It was _something._ Maybe you weren’t as out of your league as you thought.

“Um,” a voice called through the window behind you. Sam tapped on the glass, raising an eyebrow with that cheeky kind of grin on his face. “You guys need me to play _Unchained Melody_ or…”

“Shut up, Sam!”

***

Only a few days before the shipment and you’d managed to keep up appearances at home. It wasn’t out of character for you to avoid any room Brock was currently occupying, to turn quickly on your heels at the sight of him hunched over at the kitchen table, cigar nestled in his fingers and smoke from his lips, so he didn’t question your frequent absence.

You’d often spot James standing in the corner of the room, in guard and surveillance of the one man he despised above all others, and you’d hold his stare for just a moment, just long enough to remind him that under the mask of the cover he wore, he was still yours. The nod he returned to you was subtle, barely noticeable, but it was enough to get you through the days where his time was stolen by your husband.

The nights at the warehouse became the only place he was within reach. Brock had made him busy with various assignments, none of which James would divulge to you because the less you know at this point, the better, though that didn’t ease your worry. Especially when he came back with broken knuckles.

You glanced down at the papers ahead of you, record logs of the men and women Brock kept in his pocket, called upon for various favors; the corrupted politicians, sheriffs, business owners, and attorneys. You knew some of the names on the list, recognized them from the news and from the chairs of your living room, bourbons in hand and a pocket of cash heavy in their pockets in exchange for their morality.

Your finger slid over the name of the prominent councilman in New York; Grant Ward. 

“What’s the plan here, boss?”

Sam’s voice pulled you from your thoughts as he slumped back into his chair, pulling a few of the files he’d been reading for the last hour along with him.

It was when a breeze from the air ducts caught your chill, a shiver sweeping up your spine as Steve stepped up to the table, hands planted firmly on his hips in concentration. There was a hardened look on his face, once that seemed to be heavy on his features, and it set an unease in your stomach

“We don’t have enough to nail Rumlow.”

His words were like the onset of a freight train to your chest.

 _“What?”_ James jolted to his feet, metal chair falling out from under him and clanging to the concrete as he lunged over the table to grab the folder in front of Steve. “How can that be possible? That _can’t_ be fucking possible!”

Frozen, rigid. Ice in your veins. You suddenly became painfully aware of your own heartbeat thunderous in your chest. The light blue of Steve’s eyes flickered apologetically in your direction, a slight grimace on his face, before he turned back to James.

“I ran the evidence by Sharon down at the DA’s office and she said while it would be more than enough to bring down just about anyone else, Rumlow could still slither his way out these charges,” he explained, though you caught little of it through the muffled ringing in your ears. “He’s got contacts in the NYPD, the best defense attorneys in the country on his payroll, Washington politicians in his pocket. What we have isn’t enough.”

“What about the raid this weekend?” Sam questioned, quickly loosing that teasing, light hearted energy you’d come to recognize in him. “That has to count for something.”

“Sure,” Steve nodded, “and maybe Hydra will be scraped down to bones for a while, but we all know it can be rebuilt. Rumlow wouldn’t be in lockup longer than a month.”

“We have payroll lists and shipment logs with _his signature_ on them,” Natasha argued, but Steve shook his head.

It wasn’t enough.

You could barely feel the floor under your feet.

The four of them argued back and forth for what felt like hours. There was a numbness that came over you, realizing that this life that you allowed yourself to imagine, where you’d be free from your husband, where you could love James out in the light of day, might always remain as it was; a distant fantasy, a foolish dream you fell into in your weakest moments.

Brock would have a hold on you as long as he was free. He’d threaten Peter and May to keep you complicit, to keep you locked up within that home and dangling off his arm no better than the diamond crested watch around his wrist.

You’d do anything to protect your family and he knew that. He’d exploit it for far worse than he already had. He’d bring you to your knees and find pleasure in the burns on your skin. He’d rip you to pieces.

“We need him at the dock when the raid goes down.”

“That asshole won’t step within five feet of a shipyard in his _Gucci wingtips_ , Steve.”

“We’ve got to catch him in the act, Sam. It’s the only shot we have at making this stick.”

“You’re essentially saying we need Colonel Mustard in the Billiard room with the lead pipe?” Nat raised an eyebrow, arms folded over her chest.

“Exactly,” Steve nodded, defeated. “This isn’t like our other cases. We need insurmountable proof that he’s behind all of this. We’re not only fighting against his defense attorneys but an entire department that’s been bribed and corrupted by Hydra. We need to prove the sky is fuckin’ blue.”

“So how do we get him there?” Sam asked.

“I could try to convince him, but given what went down with Peter, I don’t think it’s a good idea to draw attention to myself,” James admitted, frustration evident in his voice.

“No, you’re right. We need to keep you off Rumlow’s radar. Nat?”

“I don’t know, Steve. I could go under myself, try to build some trust to get him down there but that would take time we don’t have. Months.”

“Why don’t we just throw a bag over his head and bring him there ourselves?”

“Sam!”

“I’m serious! Who’s to say why he suddenly woke up in the cargo hold of a ship surrounded by his precious Cerberus? He’s still at the scene of the crime. Who gives a shit how he got there?”

“ _Sam…_ ” Steve warned again, hands planted firm on his hips.

“I could do it.”

The words fell from your lips before you even realized you said them out loud. They were too soft, too quiet, because no one seemed to notice; not with the four of them talking over one another, arguing back and forth. Voices rising, echoing up into the empty arcs of the rafters above.

“We don’t have time for games, Wilson,” James snapped, tension aching in his tone.

“I don’t see you coming up with better options here, _Karpov._ ”

“I could do it,“ you said again, this time on your feet. Natasha turned her attention to you, narrowed eyes, almost a hint of pleasant surprise lurking behind the dark green. She exchanged a glance with Steve and you turned to find him watching you curiously. His hands fell to his sides, then quickly to the table as he looked for the paper with the details for the shipment this coming weekend.

“I could plant hints,” James continued, oblivious to your offer beside him. “I could do _something!_ ”

“Don’t be a complete idiot!” Sam shot back with a scoff. “We both know any step you make out of line with Rumlow is going to put you six feet under!”

_“Hey!”_

Palms stinging on the table, James and Sam quickly bit their tongues as you pulled your hands from the surface, rubbing the tender muscle on your thighs. Your heart was pounding, pulsing deep in your chest and rushing up to your ears, but there was a calmness in it, a sense of relief, a _purpose._

“I could do it,” you repeated for the third time, voice steadier, firmer, and the blue of James’ eyes seemed to turn dark, his lips slowly parting as a heavy breath left his chest.

“No. No way in hell.”

“I could talk to him. I could get him to the dock. He’d listen to me if I say it in the right tone.”

“We’re not doing this, Y/n. It’s not happening.” James planted his feet, arms crossed defensively and everyone else’s eyes seemed to avert elsewhere, like they were intruding on something private. The way his jaw was clenched, the short, staggered breaths from his lungs, you started to wonder the same thing.

“Brock alwayshad this fantasy that I’d fall in line one day and run Hydra alongside him,” you told him gently, watching how he flinched at your husband’s name. “You know that if I showed interest, he’d take me to the shipyard himself.”

James gripped at the edge of the seat in front of him, knuckles paper white in the tension. “It’s too dangerous. No.”

“I can handle him. You know I can.”

“It’s not about that!” he shot back, shoving the chair hard against the table, causing Natasha to peer up over the edge of her paper cautiously. “It’s about putting yourself in the line of fire! It’s _you_ having to cozying up to that fucking monster and God knows what else. No. Okay? _No_.”

You pinched at the bridge of your nose. “James, you’re not hearing me–”

“I’m hearing you just fine. I’m _not_ putting you in that position.”

“But James–”

“ _I SAID NO!_ ”

Closed fist slammed down on the table, echoing up high into the atrium, and you slowly pressed your lips together, argument dying on your tongue.

It was the first time he ever raised his voice at you, ever so much as threw even an ounce of anger in your direction, though you didn’t flinch; certainly not in the way you would have if it was Brock in his position.

You knew his anger was only a symptom of the very real, paralyzing fear of losing you to this invisible war. He was scared, just as you were, and it was evident the way his shoulders slumped the moment the words left him and he realized he’d lost his composure the at very woman he was trying so desperately to protect.

He pulled his hand to his chest, stretching at his fingers and wincing at the cracks that followed; skin red and angry, the pulsing beat of his heart straight to his fingertips.

You could see the apology forming on his lips, the guilt, the desperate search for words he couldn’t quite find and you stepped forward, gently pulling his hand to his side. You touched along the tension in his shoulders, gingerly running over the strain in his muscle, until his eyes fluttered shut in defeat, lips parting in a quiet whimper.

“James,” you started, tenderly drawing his attention back to you, beautiful blue eyes swarming in remorse, “if _this_ is the only thing that’s going to put Brock behind bars, I have to do it. I _want_ to.”

 _It’s the only thing keeping me from you,_ you wanted to add, but despite his team’s busy appearances, noses deep in files and studying monitors of your husband’s current whereabouts, you knew they were listening in.

“Y/n, please,” James urged, your name on his tongue painful, aching, desperate. There was a panic there, _a helplessness_ you didn’t expect as he cautiously glanced back at his team before he stepped closer to you, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath on your cheeks. “We’ll find another way. You don’t have to do this.”

You sighed, running your hands soothingly along his arms until the tension started to faded. Muscle unclenching under your palms, his breaths coming in steady, and you pressed a kiss to his shoulder.

“I’ll be fine,” you whispered. “You’ll be right there with me.”

“I can’t always and you know that.” James shook his head defeatedly, dark blue of his eyes still focused on you. “I don’t want you doing something you don’t want to just for this case.”

You clenched your jaw, knowing what he was alluding to and you were thankful for the soft undertones of his voice, how quietly he spoke so only you could hear him. James knew of the nights you’d give Brock reign over your body, how it was often easier to submit than to fight him on it or push it off to another night when he came home drunk and angry and took what he desired by force. It hadn’t happened in nearly ten months, but it still lingered. The shame of it, the anger, never quite went away.

“It won’t come to that,” you assured him, certain, because it was the truth. “It’s two days. I’ll flirt with him a little, warm up to him just enough to get him to bring me to the docks. I can handle that. As long as it brings me back to you, I can handle anything, okay?”

James nodded. He trusted you. That, you knew above all else. It was the reason you were standing in this warehouse and not spending your nights alone and curled up in a bedroom with the door locked in a house that was foreign and cold to you.

The warm touch of his lips grazed your temple, a heat of his breath as he pulled away.

“Okay.”

You leaned into his arms, letting him encompass you in his embrace and you listened for the steady thump of his heart as it slowly evened out, how his breaths came in quieter and the tension he’d been holding washed away at the feel of you against him. He kissed the crown of your head, sighing sweetly as you held him at his waist.

The idea of speaking to your husband, let alone pretending to feel some sort of affection for him, was like bile in your mouth. It was poison in your veins, foreign to your body, but you’d learned how to wear a smile when you needed to, learned to wave at the cameras and say the right things to keep Brock happy.

You’d find a way to fake your way through this, too.

“I wish we had another choice,” Steve said steadily, tone as gentle as he could manage. “She’s our only option.”

“Our _best_ option,” Natasha added with a smile.

“Guess we’re putting the fate of this entire case in the hands of a civilian,” Sam shrugged, though he was smirking. “Seems appropriate the woman Rumlow’s been treating as a prisoner for years will be the one that puts him behind bars.”

“I like the sound of that,” you laughed, muffled only slightly by the thick fabric of James’ sweatshirt as you pressed your cheek to his heart.

He held you a little tighter, almost painfully close, but it was never close enough. It wouldn’t be until this was over.


	16. Fifteen

Bucky was sick to his stomach; bile etching up his throat, rancid and bitter to his tongue, cooper pooling behind his lips. He felt the drip of feverish sweat drip down his neck. Nails digging into his own palms, puncturing skin, though he barely noticed the sting of it. How could he possibly pay attention to anything but the way you were leaning into your husband, giggling at his stupid jokes, fingers trailing along his jaw line in gentle strokes the way you touched _him_ just hours earlier.

Your legs were thrown over Rumlow’s lap as you squeezed in beside him on the couch, tucked between the arm of the sofa and your husband’s grimy hands sliding along your lower back. You laughed at something he said and Bucky had to remind himself that it was an act, a ruse to get Rumlow to fall in line and lead you straight to the heart of his smuggling operation.

You were a better actor than Bucky gave you credit for, though it didn’t seem to ease his discomfort at seeing you this close to a man who had ripped your life to pieces.

Twenty-four hours. That’s all it took for Rumlow to fall to your spell. It turned out he was as needy for your devotion as he was for the money lining his pockets. You were right, that he would easily succumb to you the moment you started to show an interest. It was his fantasy; to rule Hydra with a beautiful woman on his arm, one who’s eagerness followed him outside of public events and into the private halls of this home. He liked the attention, the validation, the power over a woman who spend years despising him. 

It was a game to him. One, he believed he won.

“What’s gotten into you, baby?” Rumlow drawled, his hands slithering along your thighs, slipping along your curves, and Bucky could see your sharp intake of breath even from his place at the far corner of the room. Rumlow didn’t seem to notice your tension solidifying to stone even with his hands upon you.

“I got tired of fighting this. Fighting _us_ ,” you replied breathily, expertly pulling the resentment from your voice and molding it to something light and sweet. It sounded foreign in your voice. “I got tired of telling myself I was better than all this, but the truth is… it’s me and you, Brock. It’s _always_ been me and you.”

“That’s right,” he growled, his lips touching your jawline and Bucky tried to avert his eyes, tried to find _something_ interesting in the room to stare holes into until he could count every last detail, every last molecule in the surface, but he couldn’t. He was drawn right back to you, tangled in Rumlow’s arms.

“I want in,” you said, crossing your legs over one another as his hand traveled along the top of your thigh; purposeful effort to block his path.

“Hydra is a tall order, baby. It’s not as pretty as you are.”

“I’ve seen the blood. I’ve seen the bodies in the basement.”

“And if I recall, you were rather upset with me for what happened with your cousin, but that’s the business, baby. That’s something you have to be on board with,” Rumlow warned, voice muffled by your neck as he kissed at the skin there.

Your jaw was clenched, eyes burning with rage while he was otherwise occupied, and Bucky watched as you tightened your hands to fists to stop the shaking. You did not spare him a glance, no casual look in his direction. He didn’t suspect you could stand it, not with Rumlow’s lips on you like that.

“I understand now,” you told him, voice surprisingly even as you ran your fingers through his jet-black hair. He pulled back and a short wave of relief eased at your shoulders. “Let me stand by you the way you’ve always wanted. I’m done with the shadows and that stupid library. I want you. I want Hydra.”

Heat in his chest, like fire and envy, Bucky clenched his jaw, wired shut. He wondered how those words felt on your tongue as you said them, if they tasted of the bile in his mouth or if your stomach was in painful, aching knots. He wondered how hard it was for you to dismiss the only room of this house you felt safe in. He wondered if you wanted to scream the way he did.

“Whatever you want, baby,” Rumlow smirked, pleased by your offers. His lips returned to your neck, marking skin to bruising colors, claims on your body visible for everyone to see, and Bucky had never wanted to kill a man more in his life.

“We have company,” you said quietly, a slight tremor in your voice he didn’t seem to notice, or maybe he didn’t care.

Your eyes met Bucky’s across the room for only a short moment, a wave of pain there; lingering guilt, sadness, remorse, to have another man’s hands on you, _lips_ on you, marks on your body that do not belong to the man you love. It was the first time you’d looked in his direction since you started this charade.

Bucky wanted to tell you that it was okay, that he – more than anyone else – knew what it meant to push pieces of yourself aside for the sake of an assignment, but before he could offer you even the smallest of an encouraging smile, Rumlow’s hand on your leg caught his attention.

It pushed between your thighs despite the tight cross of your legs, slipping higher up, and your wide eyes flashed towards Bucky in panic.

“Sir,” Bucky coughed, stepping out from his place in the corner of the room; the silent guard, the observer to his own heartache. Rumlow pulled back from you, rolling his eyes and his hand slipped out from your legs. It was a momentary relief.

“What do you want, Karpov? I’m a little busy with my wife.”

He had to say something. _Anything_. Keep that piece of shit away from his girl.

“There are some orders for the shipment tonight that need your sign off,” Bucky said shortly. It wasn’t a lie, at least, and it may kill two birds with one stone.

“Jesus, _fine,”_ Rumlow groaned, pushing your legs off of him rather harshly as he moved to stand. He brushed down his thighs, pushing over wrinkles in his slacks and a clear budge at his crotch he made no effort to hide.

Sharp pain in Bucky’s palms again.

“You know what?” Rumlow started, pausing at the edge of the room as he turned back to you. “Why don’t you come with me? You want to be front and center, baby? I’ll show you where the magic happens.”

You grinned, eyes brightening as you jumped up from the couch. It was like an entirely different person, a mask of a woman Rumlow always wanted you to be, and you threw yourself into his embrace. Arms wrapped around his neck, a slow kiss to his cheek, and Bucky could feel his heart threatening to beat straight out of his chest.

He moved to follow, but Rumlow held up a hand.

“Stay here, Karpov. I think I can handle my wife alone.”

Bucky’s eyes quickly flashed to yours, unwilling to leave you alone with this monster for even a second, but you gave him a short nod, tight on your smile. The steadiness of the movement, the subtly of it, and you told him through watchful eyes to stand down.

Bucky had never felt so useless in his life.

“Yes, sir,” he replied flatly, stepping back though everything in him urged him to you. He watched as you intertwined your fingers to Rumlow’s, tugging him along to the office, to behind closed doors, and Bucky swallowed back the bile in his throat for the third time that morning.

***

“He agreed!” you exclaimed quietly, sliding between the double doors to your library where Bucky was there waiting for you.

Bucky sat on the couch, just on the very edge, tension tight throughout his body because you’d been gone for over an hour. He tried not to look for the sighs he knew so well in you; the slight tussle of your hair, the collar of your shirt uneven around your neck, a flush in your cheeks and a heaviness in your breath.

He was too distracted to realize you were perfectly put together. Not a hair out of place.

“He’ll take me to the docks tonight,” you confirmed again, smiling wide as you plopped down on the couch beside him, sinking in the cushions and sliding closer to him. The length of your thigh pressed to his and he wrung his hands in front of him, elbows on his knees, hunched over.

“James?”

He didn’t respond, too afraid it might come out like the garbled mess inside his head.

“I was expecting a little more of a reaction here. This is what we were hoping for isn’t it?” you chuckled nervously, hand sliding up his spine. Goosebumps trailed in your wake but he kept his eyes on the coffee table, on a particular stained ring at the center, overlapped to another, the evidence of your endless nights in this sanctuary.

When he didn’t respond again, you asked, “honey, what’s wrong?”

Bucky shook his head. He heard Rumlow start up the car outside minutes before you arrived, off to a short meeting downtown before the shipment arrived in the evening. Last minute arrangements to be checked off.

“I know I have no right to ask you this,” Bucky started, voice feeling thick and heavy on his tongue, “and you don’t have to answer. I know that you’re only doing this to put an end to Hydra and you’re risking _so much_ to help us lock him up, but—”

“Are you asking if I slept with him?”

You were surprised as you leaned back to the couch, hand falling away from his back. A chill swept through his body in the absence of your touch and he turned back to look at you, guilt ridden and through hooded eyes, shielding over deep blue. He nodded.

“James,” you sighed achingly, “I told you I wouldn’t let it come to that. Regardless if I was with you or not. I’m not letting that piece of shit ever touch me again.”

A stone lifted from the pit of his stomach, though it still burned.

“All I had to do was stand a little closer to him,” you said slowly, watching his expression carefully, “tell him he was big and strong, stroke his ego a bit. He showed me the papers, explained it to me like I was five-years-old, as if I didn’t have multiple graduate degrees. He likes to put his hands on me; gives him some sense of control, but all I did was kiss his cheek. He tastes like cigar smoke, James. It’s disgusting.”

Bucky nodded, feeling rather foolish for letting his jealousy get the best of him. He tried to parade it as his protectiveness for you, but he knew better than that. You could carry your own and you would not give yourself to Rumlow if you didn’t want to, if you didn’t feel like it was the only option. He knew you’d do anything to finish this case and be done with that man for good, but you would not do _that_.

“I guess,” Bucky sighed, nervously scratching at the back of his head, “I just thought—”

“Well, don’t,” you replied quickly, teasing in your voice. You slid closer to him, pulling his hand into your own as you played with the lines in his palm, tracing over old scars and molding his fingers the way you wanted. He liked the way it felt, the submission of it.

Slowly, you caught his eye, a darkness coming about you as you smiled under your long lashes. With his hand in your left, you unfastened the button at the top of your jeans and slid down the zipper. Bucky watched, swallowing as you slowly guided his hand between the fabric and the silkiness of your skin.

Your hand over his, he touched over course curls of hair before he found a heavenly smooth, wetness pooling at his fingertips. He choked back a moan, watching the way you chewed at the edge of your lip.

“You are the only man that gets to touch me like this, do you understand? Only you.”

Bucky nodded, cupping at your folds. Your hand still placed over his, you pressed on his fingers like the keys of a piano and he willingly slipped his fingers between the lips at your core, sending visible shivers up your spine.

“Only me,” he repeated, two fingers circling at your entrance as you bit down hard on your lip, a gasp at its edge.

 _“Only you,”_ you said again, breathily, eyes fluttering shut as two fingers pushed inside you.

There wasn’t enough give in your jeans, not enough space for him to bring you to the edge the way he wanted to, so he pulled his hand back gently, much to the adorable pout pushing at your lips, and he chuckled as he started to tug at the waist of your jeans.

“Let it be only me then, sweetheart, and help me out,” he laughed, struggling to get them down over your hips because you wore them tight to your skin, like a second layer, and while he usually loved seeing the curves of your body so prominent in the light of day, it made for quite the inconvenience in the shadows.

You were grinning, picking up your hips from the couch as you laid back down, and scooted the fabric down to your thighs, where he was able to do the rest. Your panties came down along with them, and before you could even berate him for not following suit, he stripped himself of his own pants, leaving him exposed to you.

“We don’t have long,” he told you, knowing Rumlow’s schedule for the day by heart. It was an important day, after all. If all went well, he’d be behind bars by the nights’ end.

“Don’t need long,” you replied cheekily, gripping at his waist and guiding him to you. You tilted your hips upward, easing him inside of you in one swift motion. Bucky moaned loudly, muffling it into your shoulder.

“Oh fuck, sweetheart,” he whined, propped up on his elbows over soft cushions as he tried to find his breath. “You’re so goddamn tight. Feels so good. So fucking good.”

“Yeah?” you smirked, moving your hips just enough to make him gasp. “It’s all yours.”

Bucky chuckled nervously, trying to mask the very real throbbing of his cock inside of you; squeezed and on the brink just from the feel of your walls around him, holding him.

“You can’t say stuff like that to me, darlin’. I’m not gonna last.”

You shrugged, mischievous and completely unbothered. The way you smiled up at him, moon and stars and sun in your eyes, he wondered if he could just stay in this moment for eternity and be happy. He was sure that he could.

“You did say there wasn’t much time, didn’t you?” you teased, devilish smirk upon your lips.

“Guess I did, huh?”

“Better get a move on, James.” You pushed up against him again, the slight movement enough to pull a gasping whine from him; the tension of jealousy lingering in his veins and sensitive in all the right places. 

You were a gigging mess, masking it in kisses to his shoulder, to his neck. Bucky couldn’t quite focus straight, not on anything but the warm, wonderful feel of you wrapped so tightly around him as he pushed into you, over and over, grinding down and breathing hot to your skin. Your hands roaming his back, his spine, his stomach under his shirt. Your touch was like heaven wherever it went.

It didn’t take long, not that either of you minded; especially when he snuck his hand down between your bodies and rubbed rushed and pressured circles at your clit. You gasped into his shoulder, nails digging to his back, and he marked his own colorful kiss to the curve of your breast.

“Right there – _ah, yes_ – don’t stop,” you whined and every word, every syllable uttered in the thick, intoxicating cadence of your voice was like honey to him. It ran down through his veins, warmed him from the inside out, and he didn’t let up, not until you were withering and crying his name.

Well, not his name.

But still.

“James! Ah – _God_. I’m so close, so close.”

“I’m right there, love.”

Walls clenched impossibly tight around him and Bucky closed his eyes, unable to watch the way your lips parted, eyelids fluttering because he was already at the edge of his peak, but he needed to hold out for you.

And then it hit, you cried out, stilling under him as he kept up his movements, hips snapping to yours, pressure in delicious circles between your legs, and Bucky pressed his nose to your neck, breathing you in as found the relief to let go.

He spilled into you with a sudden gasp, his arms giving out as he fell onto you, hips lazily thrusting through the few final waves of that rush of bliss and warmth and unparalleled pleasure. He was panting, breathless, when he picked his head up again. You were grinning at him, pulling him in to kiss at his lips.

“Didn’t know you were the jealous type.”

“I’m not,” Bucky replied with a slight chuckle. “Only when it’s your psycho husband and I know you’d rather have just about anyone else on this planet touching you the way he was.”

“Not anyone else,” you told him with a smirk. “Just you.”

“Right,” Bucky laughed, kissing your cheek. Joy and love and heaven in your smile. “Just me.”

***

The air was crisp down by the water; smelling of sea salt and ocean life, the brush of waves to the posts of the dock. The overhead lights illuminating the boardwalk were dim, flickering in the distance, because Hydra operated in the shadows, even amongst the night.

Bucky trailed a few feet behind you, keeping a careful watch as your arm was draped at Rumlow’s waist, his carrying over your shoulders. You were laughing at something he said, leaning into his side, and Bucky could tell even from the cadence of your voice that it was forced. Rumlow didn’t seem to notice or care.

“Tell me what we’re seeing tonight?” you asked, doughy eyed.

You were right when you’d told Bucky how well you knew your husband. Rumlow liked it when you played it dumb, when he could talk down to you. He seemed to disregard your intelligence entirely. It made him feel strong, to have this influence over you, to guide you blindly into the heart of a raging fire where he’d lend you to the flames in favor of his own skin.

“Our final shipment of Cerberus is arriving at dock 41,” Rumlow explained, pointing down to a hangar at the end of the pier. “We’ve got millions worth of product in that ship, baby. Millions more back at our storage site, too. And that’s before this shit hits market.”

“You ever try it?” you asked and Bucky raised an eyebrow curiously.

“Of course not,” he scoffed. “A king doesn’t eat the food he feeds to the peasants.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, thankful for the cast of midnight. You nodded at your husband, though Bucky could tell from the way you stared up at him that you were holding back your tongue. He chuckled to himself, laughing at his own wit like a self-righteous, conceited _, piece of –_

“Sir!” a voice called from the front of the ship, a little panicked. He pulled off his ball cap, held it tight in front of his chest, squeezing at it nervously. “We—uh, we weren’t expecting you.”

“Wasn’t aware I had to ring ahead before I showed my wife around my own fuckin’ ship,” Rumlow growled, shoving the man aside as he boarded the ship. You followed closely behind, stealing a quick glance at Bucky and then out to the empty docks before you turned your back to him and returned to Rumlow’s side.

Bucky took a steady breath, the weight of his gun heavy at his hip and he peered back into the darkness. His team was out there somewhere. Steve, Nat, Sam, and a dozen other tact team agents ready to storm the ship the second Rumlow incriminates himself. It was already bugged. Nat was already listening in from her perch within its radius. They’d know when the time was right.

Until then, Bucky would wait.

Stepping over the slight gap between the ship and the boardwalk, the gentle waves of the Atlantic sweeping in below, Bucky followed. He passed by several of the crewmen he’d spent months overseeing; some of whom grunted as he walked by, others gave him a curt, short smile.

He spotted Lenny attending to the ropes to keep the ship at bay; the kind, middle aged man who had no business being sucked into Hydra’s schemes, hunched over in a position that was sure to hurt his back. He paused, clutching at his chest with a grimace on his face, before he continued.

Bucky let out a heavy breath, taking a quick glance back at you and Rumlow to confirm your whereabouts before he jogged over to Lenny.

“Mr. Karpov!” Lenny greeted sincerely, a smile lifting up his rosy cheeks. Dirt lined his forehead from where he would wipe his head from sweat. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you down here, sir.”

Lenny was a good man. A hardworking father who got wrapped up in something far beyond his reach and Bucky had no interest in including him on the roster for the evening’s events.

“Lenny, I think it’s time you go home.”

Lenny narrowed his eyes. “Sorry, sir. I’ve still got some work to do and I don’t think Mr. Sitwell will be happy if I—”

“You do not want to be here tonight,” Bucky repeated, carefully eyeing the crewmen as they continued about their work. Jasper Sitwell stood a careful distance from the edge of the dock, observing from his position in a crisp, blue suit. Bucky turned back to Lenny, who seemed impossibly confused. “Be with your family. Tell them you were at the bar.”

“Oh, sir, they know what I—”

“ _Go home_ , _Lenny_ ,” Bucky warned again, retreating back into the ship, because he’d already spent too much time leaving you on your own. Lenny glanced nervously back at Sitwell before he nodded, slowly putting the ropes to the dock. Bucky waited for Lenny to start heading to the parking lot before he finally turned and ducked below deck.

“Look around you, baby,” Rumlow’s muffled voice echoed down the hall. “These are our riches.”

Bucky picked up his pace, jogging just slightly until he made his way into the cargo hold. You were pacing along the dozens of crates, sliding a finger curiously along the edges as you turned back to Rumlow with a smile on your face. You were wrapped in a tight black dress and heels barely the width of a penny, leaving you to wobble just slightly on a step, but you’d hid it well. It didn’t stop the crewmen from staring at you, anyway. You looked like the woman Bucky first met in Rumlow’s office; sparkling,, vibrant red dress and a hollowness behind your eyes.

“These are all yours?” you asked, a bewilderment in your voice. “Can I see it?”

 _Damn, you were good._ Get Rumlow to open the crates him and that it was him who claimed ownership. Bucky had to stop the smile from curving at his lips.

Rumlow nodded, gesturing his hand out and waiting for one of his lackies to put a crowbar in his grip. He opened the crate with ease, and sure enough, it was lined to the brim with red bricks covered in plastic wrap, tied together by rubber bands. Cerberus.

_That’s my girl._

“Just a line of this stuff will have the four times the potency of cocaine,” Rumlow gloated. “It could knock a body builder on his ass and have him daydreaming of fuckin’ unicorns in seconds.”

“Wow, that’s incredible,” you sighed, looking curiously to the brick as Rumlow held it up to the dim lighting. Your eyes flickered over to Bucky before you continued to ask, “so what happens now?”

Getting him to confess to distribution, too. You were a Godsend. Bucky wondered how wide Natasha was grinning from behind headphones and her computer screen a few hundred feet away, listening and in recording this very conversation.

“Now, we split it up amongst our suppliers,” Rumlow explained without missing a beat. “They bring it to the streets, and we watch the cash roll in.”

_What a fucking idiot._

Rumlow continued to show you around the cargo hold, and then to the elaborate office at the back of the room. He poured himself a drink, though he didn’t bother to offer you one. In the moment he was distracted, you shot a glance back at Bucky, wide eyed and raise of your eyebrow.

Bucky checked his watch, figuring Steve and the team must be coming in soon. Rumlow was on the ship. You’d gotten more than enough from his confessions. What was taking them so long?

“Are we keeping you from something, Karpov?”

Bucky dropped his hand back to his side, letting his sleeve slip back over his watch. “No, sir.”

Rumlow rolled his eyes, returning to his scotch as he downed the entirety of it in one gulp. He turned to you, grabbed you rather harshly by the hips and pulled you tight to his chest. It left you unsteady on your feet, leaving you to grab to his collar for support.

“Now,” Rumlow purred, dark and low, “why don’t we celebrate, just the two of us?”

You laughed, though it was tight, tense, as you stared to pry Rumlow’s hands from you. “Not here, Brock.”

“ _Yes, here_ ,” he urged, pushing you up against his desk, his hands riding along the skin of your thighs, shifting under fabric and digging into your curves. You gasped as he wiped the contents of the desk to the ground, shoving himself between your legs. “Karpov, _leave us._ ”

But Bucky couldn’t move. He was a statue. He was frozen solid but there was fire in his veins, stones in his chest, vengeance itching at the surface, but he held it down by the bile in his throat. Bucky cleared his throat, tearing his eyes away from your hands as you clung to the bottom of your dress, holding it firm at the mid of your thighs, though it didn’t seem to stop Rumlow’s fingers from slipping under.

“Sir,” Bucky called as Rumlow’s shoulders stiffened at the intrusion, “I think that we should—”

“ _What?!_ What _the fuck_ do you _‘think’!?_ ” Rumlow threw back in a heated growl, bounding towards Bucky across the room. He pushed his finger at Bucky’s chest and it was a relief just to get him away from you. Bucky watched over Rumlow’s shoulder as you slid off the desk, pushed down the edge of your dress, and nodded at him. Shaken, but alright.

“How about you make yourself useful and keep this level unoccupied for the next ten minutes?” Rumlow snapped, shoving Bucky hard in the chest. He turned back to you, like he was stalking prey and your wide eyes met Bucky’s.

He found his hand nestling on the cold metal of the gun draped under his coat as he watched Rumlow take each step towards you. Safety clicking off. Pulled from the holster around his waist. Aiming in Rumlow’s direction, and then –

Darkness.

The lights gave out across the ship, a deep unsettling blackness coating the room as Rumlow started shouting at his men, barking orders over the sound of crates falling on this side and grunts coming from the injured lackies.

Bucky couldn’t see a goddamn thing. He couldn’t see his own hand in front of him and when he tried to look in the direct he’d last seen you, he was only met with darkness. He didn’t even know what way he was facing. Your name was on his tongue, though he bit it back. 

“FBI! Lower your weapons!”

_Steve._

“Get on your fuckin’ knees!”

_Sam._

Rumlow let out a guttural roar and suddenly there was gunfire. The brief shots illuminating a flicker to the room for only a second; short bursts of light capturing the flood of agents emerging down the stairway and creeping through the cargo room, diving behind crates of Cerberus, and light red powder misting up into the air with every misfire.

The generator kicked on with a low groan and dim crimson lighting cast over the cargo hold. Bucky blinked a few times, trying to adjust from the sheer darkness as he quickly scanned the room in search of you. The relief was instant as he found you peer out from behind the desk, having taken refuge there amongst the gunfire.

Bucky nodded at you, a hand gesturing to the ground; stay down, hold tight. It wouldn’t be much longer. Steve and Sam were at the forefront of the agents ascending to the lower level of the ship, night vision goggles removed as they fired back at the men who had yet to drop their weapons. The echo of the shots was deafening in the enclosed space.

“We’ve got to get out of here!” Rumlow shouted over the chaos, shoving you towards the back of the office. There was nowhere for him to go, so Bucky turned back to the agents. It would only be a minute. Just one more minute and then Bucky would have you safe in his arms again.

One minute.

Bucky held his position, gun in hand aimed at his own team to keep up appearances. He was supposed to be arrested along with Rumlow. That was the plan. It was how he would preserve his identity after this all went down. James Karpov would have an unfortunate accident on the way to his lock up and Bucky Barnes could be free again. The death of another cover and the end of another assignment.

Agents rushed at him, shoving him to the ground, knees to his shoulders and as they yanked his hands behind his back. They were shouting at him, ordering him to _‘get down’_ and _‘shut the hell up,’_ because he had to put up some kind of fight to make it believable.

 _It’ll be over soon,_ Bucky told himself. It would be over and he would come find you. They’d throw Rumlow to the back of an armored van, hull him off to the county jail for holding, and Bucky would take you back to his apartment, wash the grim of your husband from your skin, keep you tight in his arms, remind you that no one will ever hurt you again. Then, he’d tell you his name.

When this was over.

Just a minute more.

But as he peered up to the back of the office, a wash of cold rushed over him, like ice straight to his chest and through his bloodstream.

It was empty. 

“No,” Bucky gasped, tugging on the restraints behind him, desperately trying to shake off the agent holding him down. “No! Y/n! _Y/n!_ ”

“Hey! Hey, you need to _stop_ ,” Sam’s whispered harshly to his ear, hot to the touch and it burned him. He held Bucky still, pushing down to his shoulder blades as he stole a glance back at the Hydra henchmen being restrained one room over. “You’re going to blow your cover in the home stretch, you fuckin’ idiot! _Cool it_.”

“She’s gone,” Bucky panted, heart rate skyrocketing, threatening to leap straight into his throat to choke him right there. Bucky nodded to the back of the room, where you and Rumlow were supposed to be cornered. “They’re gone, Sam. I lost her. They’re—They’re gone.”

Sam lifted his knee from Bucky’s back, released his hands, and Bucky scrambled up to his feet, sprinting to the back end of the room. There were no doors, no exits, and somehow, you and Rumlow had both disappeared, managed to slip out unnoticed in the chaos.

Bucky ran his hand along the paneling, checking for trap doors, and he turned over his shoulder to find Sam quickly closing the door to the office, shielding him from the room of Hydra crewmen being arrested beyond the door. Bucky didn’t have time to care whether he’d been spotted, not with the ringing in his ears, the tightness in his chest.

“What do you mean _‘they’re gone’?_ They were right here. I saw them,” Sam argued through harsh whispers.

“There must be a trap door, a hidden latch, _something_ ,” Bucky mumbled to himself, ignoring his partner as he brushed right past him, running his hands over every panel he could find, pulling out books and trinkets from the shelves.

“Nat? You got eyes on Rumlow and Y/n?” Sam said, glancing up at the surveillance cam ahead. A moment passed before Sam, sighed and said, “Nat hasn’t seen them. They might still be on the ship. We’ll alert the team, Buck. You need to get back in position before someone sees you.”

It was like white noise; a blur of words and syllables strung together, until his hand slipped over a crack in the wall where the chill of a slight breeze touched his skin and he froze. Sam narrowed his eyes beside him as he readied his weapon.

Bucky pressed on the panel and with a single click, it unlatched, propped open and revealed a long, winding passage way through the bowels of the ship.

“Shit.”

“You need to stand down,” Sam warned, a hand to Bucky’s shoulder as he tried to stop him from rushing inside. “Let us handle this. It’s a miracle none of Rumlow’s crew have noticed you’re not in cuffs like the rest of them. With Rumlow still out there, you can’t afford to be made, Buck. He’s got resources and connections everywhere. Word gets back to him that you’re one of us and he’ll have you killed, man. Let us do our jobs. We’ll find her. I promise.”

Bucky tried to listen – _honest, he did_ – but all he could focus on was the panic in your eyes, the fear so carefully hidden behind layers of confidence and determination, the unending trust you held for him as he let you slip through his grasp and into the hands of a monster. 

Bucky took a deep breath, his hands planted firmly on either side of the door before he turned to Sam. “I’m sorry, brother.”

He jabbed hard at Sam’s wrist, forcing a release of his grip on his weapon as it fell into Bucky’s hand. Sam stared at him with wide eyes as Bucky kicked him square in the chest; not enough to cause injury but enough to knock the wind out of him for the few moments he’d need to escape.

He didn’t turn back as he heard Sam fall to the ground and he pushed his way through the tunnel, through the bare bones of the ship of metal archways and exposed wires. Hunched down under the low hanging ceilings, cobwebs stringing into his hair, until he was met with the crisp night air and the wash of salt water in the breeze.

It was almost as dark outside as it was in the ship and Bucky squinted his eyes, hoping to find a glimpse of you somewhere down the pier.

Gun in hand, he carefully made his way to the end of the ship, stepping back onto the boardwalk. Solid ground under his feet, he pressed forward; tunneled vision and heart hammering in his chest.

Then, a heavy blow to the back of his head. A Pulsing through his body like electricity, gun slipping from his hands and falling to the pavement in deafening sound. Knees buckled out from under him as a numbness swept over his body. Swaying. Losing balance as a blur of a red emblem came to view; a skull, six tentacles.

He lost consciousness before he hit the ground.


	17. Sixteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to anyone who listens to the series playlist, a reminder that Slow Mover by Angie McMahon has been on there from the start and the second half of the chorus was a direct warning for this chapter 😅

This wasn’t supposed to happen. It wasn’t supposed to go down like _this._

You paced along the small length of a cold, dark office in the back of an old textile factory Brock used to manufacture Cerberus. Heels long forgotten to the top of the table, your bare feet touched on concrete, over small rocks embedded in the ground and the cracks of the floor. They poked and prodded at your skin, weight sinking puncture marks to the balls of your feet. It was something, at least, because with the rushing race of your heartbeat, it was hard to feel much of anything else.

You didn’t know where you were or what happened to James in the blackout. You assumed he was arrested like he was supposed to be, that they made a show of it for the Hydra crewmen in the effort to protect his identity for when this was over. You hoped, anyway. 

But if you knew James - _and you knew him well_ \- you didn’t suspect he would comply to much of anything when you were missing and in the company of your husband.

 _“How in the hell did this happen?!”_ Brock roared, storming into the office with several men on his heels; Zola, the scientist in a white lab coat with subtle red discoloration along the sleeves, and the two men who held James down in the basement that night as Brock nearly beat him to death, Kohl and Sanzetti.

“I don’t know, sir,” the blonde one, Kohl, replied, to which Brock answered by throwing a right jab straight to his jawline. He staggered backwards, into the filing cabinets as Brock growled at him, almost feral.

_“Then why the fuck are you talking!?”_

You froze at the corner of the room, watching as your husband cleared the desk of its supplies, aggressively throwing papers and coffee mugs and the computer monitor itself to the floor. You winced as the screen cracked and paper slowly drifted down through the air to land delicately amongst the mess. 

Brock was panting, red in the face, as he leaned against the edge of the desk, gripping at the corners until his knuckles were sheet white.

You’d never seen him like this before; panicked in a corner and lashing out. You would have felt some kind of satisfaction if you weren’t within the crosshairs of his rage.

“I may have some answers for you,” Zola’s mousey voice spoke from the doorway. He pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose as Brock shot him a kind of glare that could have killed a man. “If you allow me one moment?”

With that, he disappeared back into the warehouse.

“Fucking hell,” Rumlow grumbled, shaking his head. “You’re all fucking useless.”

Kohl and Sanzetti were talking quietly amongst themselves, eyeing Brock suspiciously; low, murmured voices of men with loyalties to the highest bidder, the man with the most power, and suddenly, Brock didn’t hold that position. 

You watched as your husband started to finger at the weapon strapped to his waist, touching over cold metal like it was a comfort, like he it was an extension of himself, violence at the palm of his hand.

You had to get out of there.

“Brock,” you called, voice dry in your throat, arms folded over your chest protectively as he glared at you for daring to interrupt his brooding. “Maybe I could step outside for a moment? It’s a little cramped in here and—”

“No fuckin’ way, baby,” he shot back, waving his hand at you dismissively. “There could be feds casing this place! You’re not going anywhere. I want you right where I can see you. How else am I supposed to protect you?”

He spat it at you like a threat.

You clenched your jaw until it ached, nodding enough for Brock to divert his attention. He wore a forced smile, a dead kind of look in his eyes that slowly fell away to a cold, hard, nothingness as he stared down at the desk again. He didn’t care to protect you from anything. He was a selfish man at his very core and even with you feeding into his ego, he would throw you to the wolves it meant saving himself.

“You know what I don’t understand? How the hell did the FBI got access to our shipping logs?”

Your lungs burned, like fire had lit a match deep within your chest. Had you stopped breathing?

“That shit’s been under lock and key for decades,” Brock continued as he straightened his back, cracking his neck to the side, “ain’t that right, Sanzetti?”

“Yes, sir.”

Brock gritted his teeth, a sharp exhale from his nose. “So, logically, the only way that information could have been leaked was if the feds had an inside man.”

Sanzetti exchanged a nervous glance with Kohl before nodding slowly. “Yes, sir.”

Brock’s hands suddenly slammed down to the table in a fit of rage, the sharp echo of it startling straight to your chest and skipping over a beat.

_“Someone better start talking!”_

“I believe I can assist with that, sir.”

Zola appeared in the doorway again, a proud smirk on his face and you took a step forward, cold pavement under bare feet. Zola waved at someone beyond the door and he slid into the room, taking his place at Brock’s side and waited patiently. He glanced up at Brock like he was a man to be admired. It made you sick.

“This better be good, Zola, or a I’m going to—”

A body was thrown to the floor at Brock’s feet, heavy and lifeless, with a black canvas over his head and ropes tied at his wrists. Blood trailed down his neck and onto the concrete. 

You stared at the body, heart in your throat, breaths like fire to your lungs. You swallowed back the scream before it passed your lips.

“What the fuck is this?” Brock snapped, nudging the body with the toe of his wingtips.

“This,” Zola replied, bending down to remove the canvas, “is the man behind Hydra’s undoing.”

The canvas was ripped away, tossed to the far corner of the room and you bit down hard on your cheek. Thick coppery liquid pooled in your mouth as you stared down at the mess of blood matted through dark brown hair, ocean blue eyes shut, unconscious as your husband pushed himself from the desk.

_James._

Zola pulled a water bottle from his bag and slowly began unscrewing the lid. He gestured for Kohl and Sanzetti to keep James secure, even amongst the bindings, and he dumped the water onto James’ face.

You dug your nails into your palms, your forearms, your thighs, leaving behind puncture marks you couldn’t feel, even with the red staining to your fingertips. The anticipation was torture, watching the water fall to James’ face, washing away the blood and soaking his hair, until he woke suddenly, coughing violently and flinching away from the stream of water obstructing his breathing.

“Ah, he wakes!” Zola jeered.

James wrestled to his knees, though he didn’t get much further, not with Kohl and Sanzetti holding him down. Wide, panicked eyes shot around the room, catching his bearings, until they landed on you. There was a moment of stillness, a slight relief only long enough to confirm your safety, before he thrashed against his bindings.

There were no more pretenses. There was no cover to protect. It was only survival now.

“What the hell are you going on about Zola?” Brock groaned, watching as James fought against his men, shoving shoulders to knees and grunting in the strained effort. He was unfazed – curious, maybe – at his own right hand bound at his feet, the mark of a traitor branded to his name.

Zola stepped forward, handing Brock a series of photographs. He eyed the short, rounded scientist suspiciously before he snatched the stack of photos from his hands.

From behind your husband, all you could see was the way he tensed upon a single glance down to the evidence in his hands, shoulders melding to stone as he flipped through the pages, a fire in his breath. When the scorch of red touched his ears, a low growl in his chest and a tight clench of his fists along the photographs, you knew this could only end violent and bloody. Brock held little capacity for honor or mercy. He’s killed men for far lesser offenses than this.

Brock tossed the photos to the desk as if they had burned him. Some scattered along the floor, others laid upon the surface. Taken from a distance with an often blurry figure at the center, set in varying locations ranging from the cherry blossoms around D.C. to the streets lined with brownstones in Brooklyn; always the same man in focus.

James.

You stepped forward, touching the image of James in a black suit, a man different than the one before you; shorter hair pushed back away from his eyes, a brightened smile on his face, a youthful glow in his stance. But what drew your attention wasn’t the lightness in his demeanor, the laugh so clearly present on his lips, or the lush of greenery in the background, but instead, the shiny gold badge draped on a thin metal chain around his neck, sitting at the buttons of his jacket. 

_Oh God._

“Meet Special Agent James Buchanan Barnes.”

Your knees would have buckled out from under you if it wasn’t for your grip against the desk. Heart stammering, hands shaking, panic running course through your veins, you stared at James from the far end of the room, though he kept his gaze on Brock, hardened features and stone-cold expression. He didn’t bother to deny it.

“FBI, huh?” Brock questioned and Zola nodded slowly. 

“He’s been feeding them information from the start,” Zola confirmed, placing a series of small metal wirings into Brock’s hand. “We swept the house shortly after word of the raid began. He had bugs planted everywhere. Didn’t take long to weed him out as the culprit once I started looking into his history. He was a ghost before taking this job. He _didn’t exist_ two years ago and that… intrigued me. So I tapped into the security footage records from Quantico and well… seems as though he fooled all of us, sir.”

Brock chuckled, low, humorless as he examined the small listening devices in his hand, pushing them around with his finger until he closed his hand to a fist, crushing the bugs and dropping their broken pieces to the floor. He wiped his hand along his thighs as if ridding dirt from his skin.

“I never took you for a traitor,” Brock sneered, slowly pacing along the room, cracking his knuckles out in front of him, making a show of it as he stretched his hands with every click. “I have to say I’m surprised… and well, a little disappointed. We could have done great things together, Karpov – oh, sorry, _Barnes_.” Brock chuckled to himself. “You were damn good, too. So eager. So willing to do what needed to get done for the glory of Hydra. What a goddamn shame…”

James just stared up at him, allowing the unkept disdain to rise straight to the surface. Jaw clenched, hands to fists though they were tied at the base of his back, skin red and raw under the cut of ropes. He barely even flinched as Brock barreled a closed fist straight to his left cheekbone.

You gasped, hand clamped over your mouth, tears brimming in your eyes from the terror coursing through you, but James was calm, so impossibly still as he slowly turned back up to face Brock.

“Nothing to say for yourself, _Agent?_ ”

James spat a glob of thick, crimson blood to the floor, some of it dripping from his lips to his chin. “Go to hell, asshole.”

“Oh, so he _can_ speak!” Brock laughed, though he jumped back abruptly as James grappled against his bindings, lunging towards him only to be pulled back gruffly by the collar of his shirt. He narrowly clamped his teeth around Brock’s hand. “Fuckin’ hell!”

Brock raised a hand, fist clenched and rings reflecting in the dim lighting of the room, and you quickly turned your head before you saw him take the swing. The sound of knuckles to bone was enough; it warped in your stomach, pushed bile up your throat and clamping your jaw was no longer enough.

The adrenaline was seeping through the cracks, tears burning in your eyes, lump throbbing at your throat. You opened your eyes again to see James swaying unsteady on his knees, held by the front of his shirt by your husband as he punched him again and _again_ while his men stood back and watched, while they _laughed._

Blood dripped from James’ lips, sliding down his chin, his neck, pooling at the concrete beneath him. You couldn’t watch this again.

You had to do something.

You had to stop this.

“Brock?”

“I’m a little busy, baby,” he grunted, throwing another hit to James’ cheekbone, reopening the long, jagged wound that had healed in the weeks since the basement. The ring on Brock’s middle finger broke through skin and James cried out, shouting as he hunched over, pressing his cheek to his shoulder to stop the bleeding but it only soaked into his shirt. Pools of red in its wake.

“Brock, just— _wait!_ ” you tried again, voice shaken.

“Why? You want a turn?”

Wide eyes bore into his as he paused for a moment, looking back at you earnestly, and – _dear God_ – he was serious. Your gaze flashed to his closed fist, staring at the red coating his broken knuckles and dripping down his wrist.

“We should get out of here,” you gasped, desperately avoiding the panic the quickly surged through James’ face, though he kept himself motionless. “Before his friends find us… we should go.”

Even from the corner of your eye, beyond the blood and swelling on James’ face, you could see the confusion _, the horror,_ as the words left your lips. You knew your husband better than anyone else in this room, so you knew there was no scenario where he would allow James to leave this room alive; not unless his own self-preservation outweighed his need for revenge.

So, you’d stay with Brock, go with him far away from this factory, away from James and his team, to corners of the world you’d never see the other half of your heart again. You’d stand by your husband’s side and keep up this disguise for the rest of your life. You’d wear a dozen different masks, staple a smile to your face, and learn to be content – _complicit_ – again. You’d do anything if it meant James survived this.

“Brock,” you whispered, taking another step forward like you were approaching a feral animal, cautious, calculated movements as not to set it off. You slowly reached out to him, close enough to slowly wrap your hands around his and carefully pull him to your grasp. Gentle, tender movements as you held his gaze, the blood of your lover warm on your palms as you guided away the monster’s fist.

“Let’s go,” you urged. “You and me. We’ll get away from all of this. But we have to leave now.”

There was a stillness in Brock, a slow drawl of his eyes as looked from your intertwined hands to your face; a moment of reprieve, maybe something like relief, and he pursed his lips together to a soft smile.

Then, he released James’ shirt and your whole heart fell crashed to the floor; concrete to his jaw, his arms bound behind his back and unable to catch himself. He groaned, withering against the cold of the ground, trying to push himself back to his knees, trying to catch your eye and beg you to stay, beg you not to leave with the same man you’d been desperate to escape from.

“Okay, baby,” Brock cooed, his free hand sliding up your arm, pulling goosebumps like ice and venom along the way until he cupped the side of your face. You held your breath, allowed him to kiss you, push his tongue into your mouth, and you held back tears, realizing you’d kissed James for the last time. Brock had already swept his touch away from you.

You could feel James’ eyes burning on you, desperate, begging, but you couldn’t look at him. The second you did, you knew you’d lose your resolve completely. You couldn’t allow that to happen.

Protect James; the way he protected you, the way he protected Peter. This was how you save him. Go with your husband. Take the life you were dealt and deal with the consequences.

You were prepared to make that sacrifice. Until –

“Just one thing before we go.”

Brock swiftly yanked a pistol from his waistband and in those seconds, your world seemed to move in slow motion; like limbs underwater, pushing against resistance, like you might be able to reach out and stop it in time if you were only faster than time itself.

The barrel pressed to James’ temple.

The unlatch of the safety followed; deafening, echoing.

There was a burning in your lungs long before you realized you were screaming.

_“NO!”_

You clamped your hand over your mouth, muffling yourself under trembling hands as time came speeding back up to you.

Brock froze, head slowly turning to you with a hardened expression of disbelief, of fury and fire and rage burning behind his eyes; a flicker of something darker hidden in the flakes of green, a realization, maybe, and you were certain a single look could have killed you.

You quickly dropped your hands and closed them to fists at your side to stop the shaking.

“Do we have a problem here, _baby?”_

There was venom to his voice. He spat the pet name at you like an insult.

You cleared your throat nervously, trying to find your breath but your eyes flickered to James. There was crimson coating over most of his face, the cold barrel of a gun pressed against his temple, and he was watching you, terrified, but never for himself – no, his fear was for you. His drive to protect you was always stronger than that of his own.

It was something you had in common.

“He’s a—a federal agent,” you tried to reason. “You don’t—you don’t want to give them more to charge you with. You kill one of their own and they’ll hunt you down. They won’t stop until they find you.”

Brock’s stare could have torn right through you, unnerving and cold as ice, like blades to your skin as they drew blood right at your heart. But then, seemingly out of nowhere, he lowered the weapon and you exhaled a heavy sigh of relief.

“Fine,” he shrugged, far too calm for the man you knew. He brushed the barrel of the gun against his thigh, examining it up against the light. It was the calm before the storm and you could sense the lightening long before the thunder when his eyes snapped to you. “Why don’t _you_ do it?”

Before you could take another breath, Brock bounded across the room, grabbed a painful grip of your wrist and yanked you towards him. His grasp cut deep into your bones, would surely leave behind bruising and you watched as the marks of his fingers left discoloration in their wake.

He slammed the gun in your hand, cold metal to the burning heat of your palms, forced your arms out straight, pointed the barrel at James _._

“Stop,” you gaped as you tried to push out of his grasp but there was no give on his hold; no release as he caged you, forcing a violent weapon to your hands and aimed at the one man you’d give your life for.

“Go on, baby! _Shoot._ ”

You shook your head, trying to squirm out of his hold but it was like fighting with a wall. “Brock, let me go–”

“You wanted to be part of Hydra, didn’t you? _This_ is Hydra, baby! Welcome to the fun!” Brock shouted, a laugh in his voice, _amused,_ as his fingers dug bruises to your shoulders. “Now… _shoot him!”_

Your hands were shaking, the barrel of the gun swaying in your grasp. Your eyes caught James and you were shocked to find him calm, waiting patiently on his knees. There was a determination there you didn’t quite expect, a simple kind of realization. His gaze pointed down at his left shoulder before it returned to you.

You furrowed your brow.

“What are you waiting for?” Brock grunted. “No one is coming for him. We’ll dump the body before the feds can find us. _No one_ will miss a fuckin’ narc.”

James was staring at you and you could barely make out the blue of his eyes over the swelling, behind the steady stream of blood on his face. He was breathing heavy, gargled, like there was blood in his throat, too, and _God_ , it was worse than that terrible night in the basement. You choked back a cry, trying to bit it down before your husband could see your tears.

You wanted to scream, _to run_ , to use that goddamn gun on Brock himself, but you wouldn’t get more than a few feet before his men took you down. There was no way out of this. James seemed to know that, too, because there was a slight nod of his head, impossibly subtle that not even Brock seemed to notice. You parted your lips in shock as blue eyes flickered to his shoulder again before returning to you.

The realization hit you like a sucker punch to the gut.

_No._

“I’m growing impatient, baby,” Brock groaned, squeezing hard at your shoulders and causing you to recoil under the strain of muscle. “If you don’t take the goddamn shot, _I will_ and I’ll make a damn mess of things; might empty the whole clip and I know how you women are about keeping things clean.”

You shivered as the heat of his breath touched your neck, disgust and rage surging through you and you struggled to find your breath.

James nodded at you again. Your heart thunderous in your chest; it pounded in your ears. You could feel the pulse of it in your temples, through your finger tips and you slowly slid your pointer to rest against the trigger.

“Good girl,” Brock praised, his voice laced in a thick, unrelenting poison.

James held your gaze the entire time and you wished you could have known what was running through his head in that moment, because all you could think about was how scared you felt how terrified you were that _this was it_ , that you’d already used up your time with him.

He nodded again, the curve of his lips so soft you almost missed it. That sweet smile of his, the one that convinced you trust him more than a year earlier, the one that lifted the storm clouds and walls you’d surrounded yourself with, the one that you dreamed about at night. It was small and only an ounce of what you knew it to be, but it was there.

“Shoot him, baby,” Brock urged in your ear, but his voice was distant, muffled, because you kept your focus on James, on the sense of calm on his face, the trust in his eyes.

Brock was miles away when you were with James.

You took a deep breath, and on the exhale, you pulled the trigger.

There was barely anytime to watch as the bullet tore through the fabric of James’ shirt, as the impact nearly knocked him over, as the blood splattered out onto the white walls behind him, dripping down in deep crimson stains. 

Hands shaking violently as the weapon was pulled from your grip, you couldn’t look away as James’ eyes started to lose focus, how they drifted away from your own, and started to flutter, how he could hardly hold his head up.

You barely registered the push of angry hands shoving you to the door, a painful grip on your wrist, bones crackling under the touch as James slumped down to the floor. Your body was not your own as it was dragged on unsteady; a vicious ringing in your ears and a muffled voice shouting at you with malice laced in his tone.

Vision tunneling. Blurry. No – tears in your eyes. You nearly tripped over something on the floor, foot catching on something heavy and it took a moment before you realized it was James’ body Brock dragged you over.

You glanced back in horror, unable to pry Brock’s grip from around your wrist, to find blood pooling around James as he struggled to find his breath. The bare of your feet touched over warm, slippery crimson as Brock shoved you forward; red footprints in your wake.

Brock turned abruptly at the door, swinging you sharply behind him, and fired his weapon in two consecutive shots; ones that were muffled to the ringing in your ears as Kohl and Sanzetti fell to the floor, vagrant stares in their eyes and bullets lodged deep into brain tissue. You barely flinched, your focus solely on James.

He wasn’t moving, his gaze fixing on the wall far beyond you.

The pool of red under him was growing.

“You wanted to go, baby?” Brock sneered, yanking painfully on your hand, his rings cutting into your skin and you felt something pop. _“Let’s fucking go!”_

Red and blue lights flashed into the building and Brock cursed loudly, dragging you along as he sprinted to the back of the factory. James disappeared from your view and all you were left with were the bloody prints on the bottom of your feet.

The cold air slammed to you like a wall, shivers trembling up your spine, rocks and dirt to the bottom of your feet as Brock led you through the wooded overcast of trees running along the property. It was too dark back where you were, the street lights barely illuminating the front of the factory, let alone the long, winding, dirt path at its rear.

Police cars were parked by the entrance, lights flashing, men and women in uniform with weapons attached to their hips, some in their hands, as they slowly entered the building. You wanted to scream, to beg for help, but you knew the second you did, it would divert their attention to you and they might not reach James in time. You couldn’t allow that to happen.

Branches poked at your sides, scraping your skin and leaving prickles of blood in their wake; stones puncturing at your bare feet, leaves and dirt sticking to the mess of blood drying underneath. You nearly tripped over an exposed root before Brock shoved you up against a tree, hand slamming down over your mouth as a patrol car zoomed by up along the road.

No one saw you.

No one would.

At the end of the tree line was an unmarked car sitting alone in an empty parking lot. Brock pushed out ahead of you, pulling a key ring from his pocket and unlocked the vehicle. You paused, staring at him, wondering why the hell he had a getaway car stash out a mile away from the factory.

“Get in the goddamn car,” he growled, yanking your hand like you were a child and whipping you around the trunk. Your hip slammed to the rear lights and you let out a whimper, though Brock paid it no mind.

He shoved you to the passenger seat, slammed the door behind you. He slid over the engine and dropped in behind the wheel himself. Headlights off, he threw the shift into drive and drove away like it was nothing at all, like there weren’t dozens of policemen and SWAT teams and FBI patrolling the area.

The low vibration of the engine was deafening. Your hands were shaking in your lap so you tried to curl them to fists, nestle them under your thighs, but nothing seemed to make it stop. Dried blood on your feet, ringing still burning in your ears, and you turned your attention to the side of the road, watching the blur of trees out the passenger window.

You tried not to think of James.

Along the way, you must have lost track of time, because you were suddenly pulling into the driveway at the end of your estate. You’d lost nearly twenty minutes just staring out the window, lost within the ringing and the panic in your veins, and you stared up at the home with narrowed eyes.

“What are we doing here?” you asked, turning to Brock suspiciously. “This will be the first place the feds will come looking for you. We should–”

You bit down on your tongue because beside you, Brock was laughing to himself. Chin to his chest, wide smile pushing at his cheeks, like he was genuinely amused. It wasn’t a look you saw on him often. It was… unsettling.

“Brock?”

He looked up at you, crooked smile on his face, as his right hand slowly slid up your arm and nestled along your neck, fingers scratching at your scalp and they interwove into your hair. It was an intimate gesture, a tender one, and you tried to fight against how quickly you tensed up, how your muscles conformed to stone, but you knew he could feel it.

“We should go,” you tried again, voice low, cracking in the effort. Your throat was dry, like sandpaper.

He only smiled back at you, though it didn’t touch his eyes. Something was wrong.

Your heart started to pick up in pace, your breath becoming shallow.

“You can stop pretending, baby. It’s just the two of us now.”

His hand gripped tight to your hair, pulling out strands and a yelp from your lungs, and he slammed your head to the dashboard. Once, _twice_ , until darkness came in and washed you away.

***

You woke to the smell of gasoline.

It burned in your nose, the tang of it bitter on your tongue, pushing down into your lungs with a sharp intake of breath. You started to cough, violent and dry heaves as you tried to find clean air, and that was when you felt the resistance at your wrists.

Vision still tunneled, unforgiving darkness, like you were looking through the thin fabric of a black mask, you found your wrists bound to a single, wooden chair; tied down primitively with electrical wires. You tugged against it, only for it to rub raw into your skin, digging deep into the crevices, pulling a hiss from between your teeth. You tried to push forward but there was a series of wiring wrapped at your chest, holding your shoulders to the back of the chair.

“Welcome back, baby.”

Snapping your eyes abruptly to the sound of the sudden voice, you saw Brock sitting on the corner of the couch, stretched back into the arm rest with a cigar in his hand, legs crossed over one another.

“Guess I knocked you out a bit too hard, huh?” he snickered as he started to light the end of his cigar. “You figure out where we are yet?”

Your head was throbbing, black spots covering most of your vision, but they were slowly fading away. You could make out the soft blue color of the couch he was sitting on, the coffee table with stained rings upon the wood in the shape of old mugs, the greenery hanging by the windows, the colorful bindings of hundreds of novels lining the shelves surrounding you.

A room that had held you safe for so many years. Four walls that shielded you from Hydra’s claim. A place where you could be yourself without fear of repercussions, where you found respite and grew to love a man who now laid in a pool of his own blood miles away.

Your library.

“ _Ah,_ there it is,” Brock jeered, taking a long drag from the cigar, his wet, cracked lips circling around the wrapper as he inhaled. He held your eye as you stared at him, wide and stunned, before he removed the cigar and slowly blew the smoke to your face. The thick cloud of grey touched your skin and the bitterness of it stung in your lungs as you tried to cough it away.

“What _the hell_ are you doing, Brock?” you rasped, chest burning from the smoke and the sting of gas in the air. There was a container at his feet, a bucket filled high with thick, dark liquid, and you could see his reflection in.

“Getting justice,” he replied with a shrug.

 _“Justice?”_ you scoffed, rolling your eyes. “Are youinsane?!”

The mask you’d worn was long cracked and dismembered to pieces at your feet. There was no hiding your distain, no reason to pretend that your relationship was anything other than hostage and captor; certainly not with the wires binding you to a chair and the blinding pulsing in your head from where he’d knocked you out cold.

“Maybe _,_ ” he shot back with a sickening grin. He waved the cigar at you, eyes trailing over your body, the hem of your dress riding up high on your thighs in the struggle. He smirked. “I see you’ve decided to drop the act, as well.”

“Oh, fuck you,” you spat, rolling your eyes.

“Ouch. That stings,” Brock whined, hand mockingly clutching at his heart. “Didn’t know you were so unhappy, baby. I gave you the world, didn’t I?”

“You took everything from me, _you fucking asshole!”_ you shouted, voice raw and hoarse. “You forced me from my career, from my friends. You stole my money, my inheritance, my—my _freedom!_ You tricked my sixteen-year-old cousin into a goddamn _drug trafficking ring_ and threatened to beat him within an inch of his life! You kept me locked up in this house for _years_ and tied me to your arm at those _miserable fucking parties_ like I was some accessory you could show off for a few hours before you threw it back to storage! You _destroyed_ my life!”

“Funny,” Brock chuckled, completely unfazed. “I recall you signing the marriage certificate yourself. No gun to your head or anything.”

You shook your head, chest heaving with heavy, painful breaths. “You lied to me. _You used me._ ”

Brock only shrugged, a slight purse of his lips as he tapped the end of the cigar and grey ashes fell to the cushions of your couch.

Your stomach was heavy, lined with stones; your gaze focused on the muddied imprint on the tips of his shoes, the dried blood on the soles of his feet, the same blood that stained your bare skin, where you’d left footprints behind.

James’ blood.

“We could’ve had it all, baby,” Brock sighed, taking another drag from the cigar. He blew the smoke to the ceiling. “You and me. We could have ruled Hydra together. You could have been my queen.”

He paused, a heavy sigh as a cloud of thick, grey smoke passed by his lips. The cigar twirled around his fingers as if manipulated by string.

“But you just _had_ to go and start fucking my hitman, didn’t you?”

It was the full force of a train whipping along the outer curves of a mountain, plummeting you to frozen rapids amongst the free fall. Ice water to your chest, in your veins.

The hardened glare slipped from your features, replaced by widened eyes, parted lips gaping in the shock of it, panic and fear; exactly what your husband wanted from you. He wanted you afraid, trapped. It was how he _always_ wanted you. 

You couldn’t find your breath, much less your voice, so all you could do was watch as Brock pushed himself up from the couch and started to pace along the room. He slid his fingers along the shelves, pulling books by their bindings and watching as they fell to the floor, open pages stepped on by muddied wingtips.

“You know,” he drawled, picking up a copy of _To Kill a Mockingbird,_ examining it as he flipped through the pages before he tossed it over his shoulder. You winced as it hit the ground. “I never understood your obsession with this room. All these old, boring books written by old, boring people; thousands of dollars of my fortune… _wasted_ on fairytales.”

Your stomach was still lodged in your throat, hands gripping painfully at the arms of the chair. Your wrists were raw, red, and there was a burning sensation there, a tingling, and you realized the wires had cut through your skin, dipped in blood. It didn’t hurt nearly as much as the pounding of your heart in your chest, your ears, down to your fingertips and toes.

“You spent so much time in here. Figured it must be something special…. but it’s just another fuckin’ room,” Brock continued, passing by the series of plants hanging by the windows.

In one swift motion, he grabbed a pot hanging from the ceiling and threw it across the room. You flinched, the shock of it forcing several skips in your already racing heart, as it collided against the wall and shattered to the floor; a cloud of dirt circling into the air above it.

Behind you, Brock snickered as he began kicking over the plants behind you, tipping them from their place on the windowsill and dumping them from the shelves. Flowers and greenery amongst the dirt and pieces of broken ceramic, lying on the floor as he dug his heels to the roots, smashed the petals under his wingtips and kicked at the remains.

You could hear the floorboards under his feet whine as he paced behind you but you kept your gaze forward, not daring to turn around. He paused then, a heavy exhale as he turned his attention to the couch, smirking from behind your shoulder.

“You fuck him in here, too?”

You bit on your tongue, tears burning in your eyes you could no longer contain.

“ _Huh?!”_ Brock bounded across the room, thunderous steps and he gripped ahold of your shoulders until you yelped, turning away from him as best you could. “ _You fuck that traitorous son of a bitch in my house?!”_

You recoiled as he screamed to your ear, eyes closing shut as tears slipped down over your cheeks. Brock chuckled to himself as he pulled away, pleased by your reaction and he wiped his hands on his thighs, as if to rid you from his touch.

Despite the bindings, you were shaking; hands trembling, breaths labored and uneven, jaw clenched impossibly tight to stop the chattering. You weren’t made for this the way Natasha was, or Sam, or Steve, or James. You weren’t an agent of the FBI. You weren’t trained as an army ranger or learned how to withstand torture the way James did that night in the basement. Brock hadn’t even raised a hand to you and you were in pieces.

You were a literature professor at Columbia. This wasn’t your world.

“I don’t know how long you knew he was a fed but frankly, I couldn’t give a shit at this point.” Brock bit the cigar between his teeth, holding it steady as he knelt down in front of you. His breath was sour, like old smoke and day-old bourbon, and you flinched as his fingers reached up and grabbed a sharp hold of your jaw. “All I know, is that you were in on this somehow. You gave me up. Didn’t take long to figure that out once our buddy James was lying bloody on that floor and you wouldn’t let me kill the bastard myself.”

You swallowed, trying to pull yourself from his grasp, but his fingers dug in further.

“I was surprised at first,” he continued, words garbled from the cigarette nestled at his lips as he ran his free hand through your hair, “but then I remembered how Karpov _volunteered_ to take a beating for that punk ass cousin of yours. I remembered how you reacted that night in the basement, how you _begged_ me to stop and I realized… he did it _for you_ , didn’t he?”

Your blood ran cold. You couldn’t speak.

“It opened my fucking eyes, baby!” Brock shouted right to your ear, causing you to flinch. “All those times he was watching you from the corner of the room? Shit, I thought it was harmless. The guy wanted to fuck you. _So what?_ Half my men get themselves off to the thought of it. But him? No… this was different. That fucking moron actually fell for you… and you know what is so goddamn funny about it all? You fell for him, too, right under my fuckin’ nose.”

Tears were openly sliding down your cheeks, touching onto Brock’s fingers as he held your jawline in place, forcing you to look him in the eye. His stare was of ice, heartless, a vicious envy in the green of his eyes.

A single beat. And then, “imagine how fun it was for me to force you to shoot him.”

“You’re a monster.” It came out broken, harsh and aching. Images of James lying still and bloody on the floor of that factory haunting you as you closed your eyes.

“Yeah?” Brock chuckled humorlessly. “At least I’m not dead.”

Cold, unforgiving eyes stared back at you; seething, red.

And yet it ignited something in you.

“James Barnes,” you started slowly, finding strength in his name as you stared to the eyes of the devil, “is ten times the man you will ever be.”

You waited, watched as Brock’s mouth curved up to a smirk, baring teeth behind dry, cracked lips, and you spat.

He flinched at it landed on his cheek, wet and dripping down his jaw. He started to laugh as he wiped it away, flicking away the saliva to the floor and wiping the rest on his suit pants.

“Was.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What?”

“You mean _‘was,’_ as in _past tense_ ,” Brock jeered, planting his hands on your forearms, face inches from yours. “James Barnes _was_ ten times the – _blah blah blah._ You killed him, baby… or did you forget?”

No.

No, you shot him in the shoulder, right where he told you. You were certain of it. It was a clean shot.

But there was so much blood. There shouldn’t have been so much blood…

_God, why was there so much blood?_

You weren’t trained like he was. You weren’t an expert marksman like Natasha. You could have missed without realizing it. You could have shot two inches to the right and hit an artery. He could have bled out alone in that room before the cops got to him in time. He couldn’t actually be–

Your heart rate started to pick up, thunderous and burning a lump in your throat. Breathing coming in uneven, rushed, shallow, and you looked up to Brock with wide eyes, only to find him turning his back to you, slowly making his way to the bucket by the couch.

“His friends aren’t coming for you,” he taunted, picking up the container of gasoline and dumping a steady stream onto the couch beside you. You held your breath, trying to turn away from the stench of it, but it was too powerful. Brock only laughed.

“You think that because you were his plaything that they’ll give a shit about you? You’ve been a part of Hydra from the start, baby! You stood in the shadows and watched from your fuckin’ ivory tower! You knew everything that was going on in this house and you kept your mouth shut like the good little girl you are!”

You shook your head, panting because your breaths were coming in faster than you could take in air. “You threatened me! You threatened my family!”

“You were still complicit to hundreds of crimes,” Brock shrugged, dragging the container around the room and spilling puddles of gasoline along the hardwood floors. “You _are_ Hydra, baby, whether you like it or not. You are not worthy of redemption. You are _not_ better than me. You _are_ and _always will be_ Hydra to those feds and they _will_ leave you to BURN!”

There were splinters in your palms from how tight you were holding the edge of the arm rests. Your whole body was rigid, like stone, as you watched Brock douse the shelves filled with priceless books, first editions and cherished copies, with gasoline.

He always held a resentment for this room; the fact that you had a place within the cold, unforgiving nature of this home to feel safe in. It mocked him, infuriated him, that he couldn’t control every ounce of relief and happiness you were allowed in this world. You’d found that for yourself outside of him. In this room. In James. In yourself.

And he was going to set fire to it all.

“Brock,” you choked out, terrified, “wait.”

“I think I’ve waited long enough,” he shot back, tossing the rest of the gas onto the plants behind you, letting it seep along the floorboards. He threw the empty container to the side of the room, against the bookshelves to your left and pulling down several novels along with in. They splashed into the gas, their pages soaking in the fuel.

“Don’t do this,” you begged, voice barely above a whisper, too lost, too broken behind the lump in your throat. You tugged against the bindings, fighting the restraints, until blood dripped down your wrists and stained the hardwood floors beneath you.

Brock winked as he leaned on the door frame, pulling the cigar from between his teeth and blowing out a cloud of smoke. One final drag before he flicked it to the floor, almost in slow motion as it spun and twisted in the air.

It landed amongst the gas, and then, it burst into flames.


	18. Seventeen

“I said _I’m fine_ , Steve,” Bucky groaned, swatting away the hand of the paramedic as he tried to disinfect his shoulder. Blood was bubbling at the surface over ripped and frayed edges, dripping down his arm and onto his ribs. He held his shirt balled up in his hands, clenching at the fabric as the sting of alcohol burned against the open wound.

“You were shot, Buck. Let the man work,” Steve warned, glaring at him until Bucky dropped his resolve long enough for the paramedic to begin stitching the mess on his shoulder. It was surrounded by hardened tissue; muscle that had been carved and mutilated in his time overseas and the time between. He’d lost some of his nerve endings amongst the scarring, so the needle twisting through his skin wasn’t so bad.

“She did a good job. Clean hit. Looks like it went right through,” Sam said, eyeing the gunshot wound in Bucky’s shoulder. He pursed his lips, impressed. “Y/n know about the vest?”

“No.” Bucky sighed, breath heavy like stones in his lungs. “There wasn’t time to tell her.”

The vest he wore under his shirt was not bulletproof. No, it was a stage prop, a gimmick from the set of a television studio that actors wore when they were shot on screen, one that released balloons of fake blood. It was what was currently drying on the concrete on the office floor just a few feet away.

It was supposed to be used after he was arrested, to make it look like James Karpov died on his way to the station in a dramatic shootout with at least a dozen witnesses, giving Bucky Barnes the opportunity to walk as a free man again. It was a part of a plan that had long been thrown to the wasteland and it forced him to improvise. So, when he stared down the end of your barrel, he knew setting it off was the only way to get you out of this, to keep Rumlow from suspecting you.

Bucky managed to snag the release at the time of your shot, making it look like you’d hit a critical artery. He fell to the ground and played dead.

"Shit,” Sam cursed, hands on his hips. “Does she know you’re alive?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky sighed, clenching his jaw as the paramedic tugged on the rudimentary string keeping his skin together, “but she’s out there somewhere, _alone_ with that fucking psychopath. I can’t be wasting time on this. _I need_ to be out there looking for her!”

“We’ve got dozens of our finest searching for them,” Steve said, trying to reassure him, but it was no use. “We’ll find her. You need to let us do our jobs.”

Bucky pushed himself from the back of the ambulance, shoving away the paramedic the moment he pressed on the bandage over the mess on his shoulder. He spotted his reflection in the side mirror of the ambulance, grunting at the stain of red against his cheek. He wiped at it with the sleeve of his shirt, trying to scrub it away, though it only seemed to make it worse. Dried blood crusted on his jawline. 

Bucky slipped his shirt back over his head, wincing at the sharp pain in his shoulder as he tugged it down to his waist. He brushed out the wrinkles, ignoring the heavy patch of red on the left side of the fabric before he retrieved his weapon from Sam.

“I’m going after her,” Bucky reported flatly, heading towards the door.

“Come on, man!” Sam chased after him. “Don’t be an idiot, okay? We’ll come up with a plan.”

“You’re going to get yourself killed, Buck,” Steve warned, though he was following close behind. A hand landed on Bucky’s good shoulder and he froze, tension hardening like a rock through his spine and Steve quickly pulled away.

“Look,” Bucky growled, hands clenched, “you can either come with me, or get the hell out of my way.”

“How about a third option where you come with _me_?” Natasha appeared at the edge of the doorway, holding a tablet in her hand. Pursed lips, raised eyebrow staring back at him and Bucky shook his head, pushing past her.

“I don’t have time for—”

“I found her.”

He froze dead in his tracks, head whipping back around. “You _what?_ How?”

“I’ll tell you on the way,” Natasha said as she gestured for the team to follow to the van out back. She turned and started walking before caring to see Bucky’s acknowledgement. Steve and Sam exchanged a quick look as they quickly jogged behind.

She jumped into the passenger seat, instructing Sam to drive as Bucky and Steve piled in the back. Sam didn’t ask questions as the engine turned to a low purr and Natasha gave him the first set of instructions. Left out the back gate. Continue to the fork in the road, then right.

“ _Nat,”_ Bucky urged impatiently, hands squeezing at his knees as he tried to look over her shoulder to get a glimpse of the tablet, but she held it secure to her chest, like there was something she didn’t want him to see.

“I’ve already alerted the NYPD,” Natasha told Sam, “so they know not to pull us over. Don’t stop for the reds.”

Bucky squeezed his hands to fists, nails digging into his palms. His jaw was clenched, wired shut, and his breaths were hot like fire on every exhale. He tried to focus on the feel of his jeans, the faint smell of the corn syrup soaked into his shirt, the cool breeze of the window cracked next to him, but nothing eased the boulder forming in his chest, pushing down on his lungs and suffocating his heart.

“Nat,” Bucky gritted out again, voice strained in the effort, _“where is she?”_

Natasha sighed, eyes flickering back at Steve, who slowly nodded in response to her silent question. She tapped on the screen of the tablet, twisting around in her seat until she could see Bucky over the shoulder.

“You said Rumlow’s pet scientist removed all of the bugs from the house?” Natasha started. Bucky narrowed his eyes, remembering the pieces of the small listening devices broken on the floor of the factory. Natasha bit on her lip, slowly extending the tablet to Bucky. “Seems he missed one.”

The tablet was heavier than he expected and it dipped a little as she released it to his hands. His heart was pounding, like thunder, bursting at the seams and aching to push past his ribs, break open skin, and plummet straight to the floor.

Bucky stared down at the screen, the image in its reflection of a room he knew well; shelves upon shelves filled with books, assorted mugs left around the room still steeping tea from hours earlier, the soft light of the pale blue lamp by the couch, the series of awards and degrees hanging on the walls.

Bucky’s hands were shaking, gripping so tightly to the edges of the tablet he thought he might crack the glass, because what drew his attention wasn’t the familiarity of the room, the memories of the time he spent there loving you from afar, loving you up close.

He couldn’t see the pile of books on the end table that you’d gathered for him for him to read. He couldn’t see the solid black mug with golden marbled cracks you’d designated as _his_ mug sitting upon the coffee table. He couldn’t see the aisles where he’d loved you, rushed and rough, laughing as he pressed your back to the shelves and your legs wrapped at his waist, the heated flush of your breaths as you clung to him, the sweet whimpers he drew from your lips.

No—instead, he fixated on the novels laying haphazardly on the floor, books you cherished face down, pages bending, where you’d once kept them meticulously organized along the shelves. The plants thrown from their pots on the windowsill, ones you talked so kindly to every time you watered them, wondering how they were still alive because you’d killed just above every other plant before them. The faint discoloration of cigar smoke filtering to the top of the room, clouding over wooden engravings at the tops of the bookcases, staining the room with a smell of a man you worked so hard to escape from.

Then, though his heart was in his throat, he let his eyes drift to you – _you_ tied at the center of the room to a chair as Rumlow sat on the edge of a couch, _your couch_ , dragging in smoke from a cigar. There were ashes on the cushions, smeared into the fabric where Bucky had laid with you on late evenings when he couldn’t stand to leave you alone in that home.

“I didn’t–” Bucky started, finding his voice dry, like sandpaper, and he cleared his throat. He gripped tighter to the tablet, knuckles turning white. “I didn’t think we were surveilling this room.”

“We weren’t,” Nat replied gently, sensing the tension in Bucky’s voice. “I had the transmission cut off since last year. It’s probably why they didn’t find it when they swept for bugs. There was no signal coming from it until I turned it on a few minutes ago. We lost audio though.”

Bucky nodded, feeling an ounce of relief, knowing that your sanctuary wasn’t completely tainted until now. This room, the only room in the house you truly felt safe in, was still yours. Or, it was, before your husband laid waste to it.

“This is a good thing, Buck,” Steve added slowly, setting a light hand on Bucky’s leg. “We know where she is. You can keep an eye on her until we get there.”

Bucky watched as Rumlow knelt down in front of you, gripping tight to your jaw as you struggled to recoil from his touch. He could see the tears reflecting on your cheeks, the tremble of your chest as you tried to find your breath, even from the angle of the camera high in the corner of the room.

He couldn’t stand to see you like this; _afraid._

He was supposed to be on his way to you from the back door of the police station, clean of the theatrics and the corn syrup dye on his clothes, free of the name binding him to a vile organization, ready to start his life again as the man he always wanted you to know him to be. He was supposed to protect you from this, from _Rumlow_ , from the life you’d been chained to for years.

But instead, you were bound to a chair in the middle of your safe haven, a witness as your husband tore it to pieces, like pieces of your heart breaking off with every novel tossed to the ground; alone, as Bucky let his promise you to go unanswered.

His promise to save you from this, to take you away, to give you back the life you’d lost.

He might not get that chance.

“I’m going to kill him.”

The words were heavy on his tongue but there was a relief in it, a certainty. It was a fate he’d been slated to from the start.

The car was silent; the only response the low purr of the engine.

***

“What’s her status?”

Bucky shook his head, unable to respond to Natasha’s question without finding bile in his mouth. It was like watching a horror movie, knowing that at any second everything could go up in flames. Rumlow was shouting at you, his arms waving about, and though they had no audio, Bucky could tell by the way you were avoiding your husband’s eyes, that you were afraid.

But it was when Rumlow bent to pick up a large container, one with liquid that sloshed up over the top and spilled to the floor by your feet, that Bucky stopped breathing entirely.

“Bucky?”

He couldn’t hear Steve’s voice, not as he watched Rumlow spill the thick, dark colored liquid around the room, onto the couch, onto your shelves lined with books, onto the hardwood floors. You were shouting at him, struggling against the wires binding you to the chair, blood trickling down your wrists. You winced at the smell of it, pushing your nose to your shoulder the closer he got.

 _“Jesus Christ,”_ Bucky muttered out, hands shaking violently against the tablet. His heart was lodged up into his throat, threatening to choke him.

“What is it?” Sam called from up front. “What’s going on?”

“Sam,” Steve warned, eyes glued to the screen as Bucky veins filled with fire, with rage, and the heat of his breath was that of a dragon’s. “How far are we?”

“Five minutes, boss.”

Steve stole a glance back at Bucky, watching as he gripped painfully at the tablet, gritting his teeth as Rumlow stalked around you, dumping what looked to be gasoline to a room quite literally filled to the brim with novels that would go up in flames in a matter of seconds. Bucky was shaking, whether it was with rage or fear, Steve couldn’t tell.

Steve caught Natasha’s eye, a silent conversation between them before he leaned forward and put a hand on Sam’s seat.

_“Floor it.”_

***

Bucky jumped from the car before Sam could even pull it into park. He shoved his way out the door, the pavement still moving under his feet as he rolled along the driveway, back skidding into the rocky surface that only worsened the pain in his shoulder. He scrambled back to his feet, sprinting towards the mansion, when a thunderous explosion to his froze him dead in his tracks.

An arm came up instinctively to shield his eyes as an influx of bright light punctured through the night sky.

Glass shattered out into the grass and from the window of your library rose angry, orange flames into the night sky, dancing and crackling in the wind. A large gust of a breeze swept by and the flames seemed to scream, pulling down pieces of the wooden architecture of the outside walls with deafening snaps.

He could vaguely hear Steve shouting behind him, warning him to wait until the firefighters arrived, to stop putting himself at the front lines of a beast he couldn’t hope to tame. They were only a few minutes out. It was too dangerous to go inside himself. He wasn’t trained for this.

But none of that mattered to Bucky, not in that moment. All he knew was you were trapped inside _, alone_ , in a burning room and he’d be damned if he stood on the sidelines and watched. 

Bucky sprinted to the front door, bounded over the cracks in the pavement and skipping the stairs leading to the door. The knob seared hot enough that it burned right through his palm and he hissed at the sting of it, staring down at pink and blistering skin in his grip.

He threw his shoulder to the door, shouting out in frustration when it refused to budge. His shoulder was aching, pulsing, from the impact. Again and again and still _nothing._ Black smoke spilled out from the library just a few windows down, taunting him as it tainted the night sky.

“Come on!” he screamed, voice hoarse as his eyes kept darting to the flames bursting from your sanctuary. He only had so much time before the heat was too much for your body, before the smoke infiltrated your lungs and you were burned by the consumption of fire to your most prized possessions.

“Stand back!”

Bucky turned abruptly at the voice to find Steve at his side, gun in hand as he fired three shots at the knob and slammed the sole of his boot to the vulnerable wood at the left of the door. The wood cracked, the hatch falling loose and it cracked open, pooling thick, grey smoke from the living room.

“I’m not letting you run into a burning building on your own, you jerk,” Steve grunted, shouldering the door until it swung open, slamming against the adjacent wall, and they were met with a wall of smoke. Steve pulled the edge of his shirt over his nose and nodded for Bucky to lead the way.

Bucky nodded at him, unable to find his own voice. He rushed into the living room, crook of his elbow pressed to his nose, coughing at the sudden gasp of smoke. It was still high amongst the ceilings, but in a short glance down the winding hall to your library, the smoke only became thicker, heavier, and it was so clouded he could hardly see the door.

“This way!” Bucky shouted, taking off towards the library.

It was a path he knew well, one he’d once walked slowly with a careful glance over his shoulder and one he’d raced to the moment he stepped foot in this home. He knew the dip in the floorboards at the edge of the foyer, the slight stain on the wood from where you’d dropped a mug filled to the brim with herbal tea, the paintings lining the walls that you’d slowly replaced over your years to the works and designs of local artists depicting mountain ranges and sunsets and gardens and all the places you’d rather be.

Small pieces of you were embedded in this home. It seemed they, too, were up in smoke.

Bucky slammed into the doors at the library, though they didn’t budge. He pressed his hands to the wood to find it scorching hot and he hissed, jumping away from it. Eyes trailed down to the knobs and he found the double doors shackled together with a thick, metal chain.

“Oh God. What do we—”

“I’ve got it!” Steve shouted over the roar of the fire behind the door. He pushed Bucky aside and fired one shot to the lock. It released with a slight kick of his foot to the chains and they fell to the floor. Steve quickly holstered his weapon with a single look in Bucky’s direction, a nod, and he pushed open the doors.

They were met with a heat that singed at their skin, flames that pulled towards them in the flood of oxygen sweeping into the room. 

“Shit!” Steve cursed, shielding his face from the fires as he stumbled backwards, but Bucky was advancing forward, as if the heat wasn’t drying his lungs with every breath, as if the smoke wasn’t winding him, like he wasn’t about to walk through a wall of flames. “Bucky, wait!”

Bucky took a deep breath though his lungs filled with smoke and he sprinted inside. He could feel burning on his skin, the singe of the flames against his exposed forearms, but none of it compared to seeing you strapped to that chair at the center of the room. Your head was lulled to the side, cheek to your right shoulder, eyes closed, and your skin covered in dark soot, some patches of burn marks seared raw.

He rushed at you, skidding to his knees and trying to ignore the fact that his jeans were soaking in gasoline pooling under your feet that was sure to light up at any second.

“Y/n,” he called, voice too soft, as he gripped at the sides of your face. “Sweetheart, wake up. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

You didn’t respond and Bucky could hardly feel a touch of your breath under your nose.

“Please, I need you to come back to me,” he begged, shaking you, harder than he meant to, but _God_ , he’d never been so scared in his life. A muffled groan pulled from your lips, a slight twitch in your nose, and that was enough for him.

“That’s my girl.” He exhaled, laughing through the adrenaline and panic in his veins.

He pulled a scalpel from his pocket, one he’d stolen from the ambulance back at the factory, and quickly began working at the wires binding your wrists. He tried to ignore the raw and bleeding skin underneath.

There was a loud crackling above and Bucky glanced up to find a large fracture in the ceiling, spreading rapidly to the window. Small pieces of the paint chipped off and fell down around him like snowfall.

“Bucky!” Steve shouted behind him, warning him.

Bucky gathered you into his arms, hulling you to his chest. You were like a rag doll, limp, though you curled into him, nose finding the crook of his neck as if you were only sleeping, seeking out his scent, his warmth, even amongst the flames.

“I’ve got you, honey,” he whispered, a gentle kiss at your forehead as he stared down the wall of fire ahead of him. “Steve!”

“I know! I’m working on it!”

Steve was prying the door from the hinges, the metal already warped and easily manipulated by the heat of the flames. It detached suddenly and Steve stumbled under the weight of it before he slammed down ahead of Bucky, acting like a bridge to suffocate the fire in his path if only for a minute.

Bucky didn’t waste a second, no hesitations, and he sprinted to the hallway with you safe in his arms, leaving your library up in flames.

“Can we get the hell out of here now?” Steve grunted, panting, hands on his knees though he was smiling. He straightened his back, looking down at you and Bucky was certain he saw relief in his friend’s face, to find the slight movement in your chest with every breath, even if it was shallow and rasping.

“Yeah,” Bucky nodded with a tired smile, “let’s—”

The words died on his tongue as he spotted a figure in the distance, waiting, watching. It paused, incredibly still, before it descended further into the shadows. Calling him. Beckoning him forth. A challenge he would not dare go unanswered.

“Take her,” Bucky ordered flatly, already pushing you to Steve’s arms before he had a chance to object. “Get her to the paramedics.”

“Buck, what are you—”

"There’s something I need to take care of.”

The flames were starting to follow them into the hallway and Bucky gently released you to Steve’s arms. He leaned closer to you, swept your hair away from your eyes and kissed your temple; eyes closed, lingering, because he needed to remember this. He pulled back to find Steve staring at him in disbelief, eyes flickering down to the end of the hallway.

“Don’t,” Steve said, though there was an aching there, a pleading. 

“Get her somewhere safe,” Bucky replied, putting a hand to Steve’s shoulder, a slight squeeze, an appreciation for a debt he will never repay. “Steve, please.”

“You won’t have long,” he warned, eyeing the unstable foundation around them. Your library was starting to cave in on itself, pieces of the ceiling falling into the flames, until the shelves collapsed, and hundreds of novels lent themselves to the fire. Steve pulled back, shielding you as the heat of it carried out into the hall.

“I know,” Bucky said slowly, guiding Steve down the hall to the front door. He kept his eyes trained on the man in the shadows. “I’ll see you soon, brother.”

Steve paused, his eyes catching on the man lying in wait. He clenched his jaw, gritted his teeth, and then nodded. “You better.”

Steve rushed out the front door, carrying you safely in his arms away from the flames, and Bucky stood still in the living room, staring down into the dark corner where Brock Rumlow emerged from. Bucky’s hands curled to fists as he stepped forward, watching while Rumlow poured himself a glass of scotch amongst the thick fog covering the ceiling.

“I thought you were dead,” Rumlow said, a bit annoyed, as he took a swig of the amber liquid.

“Yeah, well,” Bucky shrugged, hand gripping around a vase to his left, “you’re used to underestimating my girl, aren’t you?”

Rumlow chuckled, though it was dark, humorless. He threw back the rest of the scotch, smacking his lips loudly. Then, he sharply pulled a handgun from the back of his waistband and aimed it at Bucky, quickly releasing the safety as a maniacal grin slithered along his lips.

“Guess I’ll have to finish the job myself.”

Before he could fire, Bucky threw the vase across the room with the full force of his strength. The crash of it against the wall to Rumlow’s right distracted him enough to give Bucky the advantage to propel himself over the couch, using the ottoman as leverage, and tackle Rumlow to the ground.

The gun was thrown a few feet away and Rumlow let out a grunt as he slammed to the hardwoods. With Bucky’s full weight on top of him, he fought like a feral animal, kneeing and kicking and shoving hands to Bucky’s face. The heel of his palm slammed straight to Bucky’s chin, causing him to hit his head on the end table beside them. It served its purpose as Bucky fell off of Rumlow and slumped to the floors, dizzying him enough for Rumlow to crawl out from underneath.

Rumlow smirked as he reached out for the gun, his fingers touching the warm metal of the handle for only a second, vengeance in the palm of his hand—

Bucky scrambled forward, grabbed a tight hold of Rumlow’s jacket and yanked him back, sliding down along the floors as the gun slipped out of reach again. Bucky threw a punch to the left corner of Rumlow’s jaw and a splatter of blood spewed from his lips and coated the white wall beside them and dripped down over his chin.

Within his rage, a vicious kind of roar released from deep in Rumlow’s chest as he bared his teeth, blood seeping through his gums and spilling from the edges of his lips. He slowly climbed his way back to his feet, legs wobbling underneath him as he stood from the exhaustion.

“You won’t survive this, Agent Barnes,” he spat, pacing to the edge of the room where the thick cloud of black smoke began to sink down from the ceiling.

Over Rumlow’s shoulder, Bucky caught sight of flames creeping in from the hallway making their way to the living room. He tried to catch his breath but it was hard to find, shallow in his chest, and he was losing energy quicker than he shoulder. Sweat beaded on his brow, dripped down his face, his neck, and he felt like his lungs were aflame. He hulled himself to his feet, feeling a little disoriented from the hit and the smoke in his lungs.

“You think you can just infiltrate the greatest underground empire this city’s ever known?!” Rumlow roared, diving forward and slammed a closed barreled fist to Bucky’s jawline. It nearly sent him spiraling to the floor as he clamped down on the inside of his cheek, blood pooling quickly in his mouth.

Rumlow’s lip twitched, a kind of chaos and recklessness lurking under his skin unfamiliar for a man who spent his life meticulously planning and strategizing, draped in Gucci and Armani.

“You think you stood a goddamn chance against _Hydra,_ you fucking traitor?!”

A knee to Bucky’s stomach, then a fist to his nose, to his shoulder, until Bucky couldn’t shield himself anymore. The heat was singing on his skin, burning more than whatever Rumlow could dish out. 

Bucky risked a glimpse a few feet away as Rumlow prepared for the next hit and the flicker of metallic caught his eye. He froze.

But so did Rumlow.

Bucky lunged for the gun, scrambling over the floors, nails digging into the exposed wood and diving splinters into his skin. He grasped it just long enough to spin the chamber of the revolver before Rumlow came up behind him and kicked him hard in the ribs, forcing him to curl in on himself as he let the gun slip through his fingers. 

Rumlow bent down slowly and picked up the gun, admiring it in his hand as he backed away.

“You know, I thought you’d put up more of a fight,” Rumlow tsked, the spin of the chamber clear as Bucky forced himself to his feet. He was uneasy in his stance, blood dripping from his forehead, wet in his hair. Rumlow eyed him cautiously.

“It’s over, Rumlow,” Bucky warned. “You’re finished.”

 _“Finished?”_ he mocked, laughing, deep and boisterous over the roar of the flames behind them. “Wake up, asshole! You’re the one staring down the end of the gun. You’re not walking out of this house alive.”

“You’re not going to kill me,” Bucky replied defiantly, certain as he took a slow, calculated step towards the end table, pacing around Rumlow as he followed in opposite tracks.

Rumlow scoffed. “I’ve got six rounds here that say otherwise.”

“Do you?”

Bucky released his hand as six golden bullets fell from his grasp, chiming against the hardwoods in deafening clicks before they settled and rolled under the couch. Rumlow stared down at them in disbelief, slowly turning to the gun in his hand and spinning open the chamber to find it empty.

In the pause of his distraction, Bucky slipped his hand under the end table, grasped the handle of the gun he’d stored there on his first day patrolling the mansion and ripped it from the duct tape securing it to the underside. He aimed it at Rumlow, stone cold in his features as sweat beaded down his temple.

But Rumlow started to laugh.

“You can’t beat me, Agent Barnes,” he sneered. “Hydra will _always_ win.”

“Not once we put you away,” Bucky hissed, hands gripping the gun impossibly tight, until his knuckles were ghost white. Above him, cracks were opening in the ceiling, the foundation slowly giving way to the heat.

 _“You think that’s going to stop me?!”_ Rumlow bellowed, advancing forward and causing Bucky to take a step back. “You think that putting me in jail is going to do _anything?!_ Hydra may be burned to ash but I still know who’s responsible.”

Bucky swallowed, a slight give beyond the hardened mask he wore, and Rumlow saw straight through it.

He chuckled, low and demonic. “Yeah, I know she was a part of this. That conniving little _bitch!”_

Bucky clenched his jaw, knowing the panic was evident on his face but he held his stance, watching Rumlow as he started to pace, grinning like he knew he’d won.

“Here’s what you’re going to do, Barnes,” Rumlow smirked, folding his arms, “you’re going to hand over the gun and then, you’re going to let me go.”

The ceiling behind them gave way as wooden beams and scaffolding plummeted from above. Bucky turned back to Rumlow, holding the weapon steady.

“That’s not going to happen.”

“I beg to disagree,” Rumlow shrugged, unbothered by the heat of the flames as they inched closer. “You’re going to let me walk out the back door, away from your buddies waiting to put me in cuffs and you’re going to do it happily –”

_“Fuck off.”_

“—otherwise, I’ll use every last resource I have to slaughter _your girl_.”

Bucky’s heart stopped, like the full force of a freight train to the sternum. Muscles to stone, blood to ice. His stomach twisted and warped on itself.

“That’s what you called her right? _‘Your girl?’_ ” Rumlow rolled his eyes, laughing to himself. “Pathetic. You would have sacrificed _everything_ for her, wouldn’t you? Its fucking _weak_! And for it to be _her?_ Are you kidding me, Barnes? You risked it allfor my fucking leftovers!?”

Rumlow was laughing – no, c _ackling_ – and maybe it was the smoke or the flames but there was something unhinged about it, manic, and the look in that man’s eye was chilling, like ice straight to his core.

 _“Shut up,”_ Bucky warned, voice low, cracking. Heat boiled in his veins that had little to do with the flames surrounding him.

“You took _everything_ from me,” Rumlow growled, features shifting abruptly into something much darker. “I’m going to destroy you.”

Bucky shook his head, tightening his grip on the gun. “You won’t have the chance, asshole. Now start walking.”

Bucky gestured the barrel towards the door, but Rumlow didn’t budge. Instead, that small maniacal smirk returned to his lips, cracking through dried skin and leaving slivers of blood in his wake.

“You think some prison bars and an orange jumpsuit are going to stop me? You think I won’t be able to ruin _your whole fucking existence_ with the snap of my fingers!? You think I won’t rip _your girl_ straight from under you?!”

Stone in his throat, blood on his tongue, Bucky couldn’t control the pounding in his chest.

“You’re fooling yourself if you think I don’t have connections in the FBI! I’ll find her, even if you hide her in the smallest no-where-shit-town in the country!” Rumlow goaded, shouting above the flames, almost deranged as his pupils blew wide. “I’ll find her and I’ll send the worst kind of man to finish the job. She’ll be begging, _crying,_ wondering how you could have let this happen to her when you could have just let me walk away! She’ll know when she takes her final breaths, when she’s choking on her own fucking blood, that it was _your fault!_ ”

Bucky’s breaths were uneven, rasped and wheezing from the smoke and heavy from the painful thumping of his heart. He gripped the gun tighter in his hold, until the crevices pinched his skin and the heat of the metal seared into his grasp.

“You won’t see it coming,” Rumlow sneered, shaking his head, baring his teeth. Vile. Evil. Unhinged. He stepped forward, challenging Bucky to pull the trigger. “You could have months, _years_ together and just when you think she’s safe from me… just when you think this is all over… when you’ve let your guard down just long enough… you’ll come home to find her _IN PIECES!_ ”

_BANG!_

_BANG! BANG!_

_BANG!_

Rumlow stumbled backwards, the impact leaving him clutching to the bar cart for support. Slowly, he glanced down at his chest in disbelief, shaking hands reaching out and touching the blood as it pooled against his white pressed button up. It seeped along the pristine fabric, soaking deep stains of crimson as it spread.

His mouth was agape, trying to form words as his legs gave out from under him and he collapsed to the ground. Lips parting, breaths shallower with every inhale, and hazel eyes fell on stormy skies of dark blue until they glossed over, faded away, and soon, there was nothing left.

Bucky lowered the gun, staring down at the body of the man he gave more than a year of his life to put behind bars; a man with no extraordinary ability, but a malice wretched into his soul and darkness in his veins. He bled like any other man. He died like one, too.

Bucky felt cold, empty, but a boulder was lifted from his shoulders and he set the gun down on the desk beside him, leaving it behind to the flames.

The mansion was caving in around him as he turned to the front door. Flames erupting from the hallway to your library now taking root to the staircase, traveling along the back wall to the kitchen. It consumed the furniture, the paintings, the tapestries, the priceless artifacts Rumlow had illegally acquired to gather dust on his shelves.

It was all ablaze.

A section of the ceiling collapsed by the front door, blocking his path, and Bucky started to feeling the effect of the smoke taking hold. His breaths were far too short, like he was gasping for air at the surface of an ocean’s tide before it swept him under again. A piercing pulse ached through his head, leaving him dizzy, and he struggled to remain on his feet.

The second story was starting to cave in. He didn’t have much time left.

There was only one way out. Through the flames. To you.

Bucky pulled the collar of his shirt up over his nose and ran.


	19. Eighteen

_The voices around you were distant, like a memory. You couldn’t quite make out what they were saying and the act of opening your eyes felt almost impossible. Your lids were too heavy, your head lulled comfortably against solid muscle, somewhere safe. You swallowed back the dryness in your throat, curling against the warmth enveloping you as tremors ran up your spine like shivers._

_But something wasn’t right._

_The scent on the collar wasn’t one you knew. It was covered by the heavy smog of smoke but you could still detect something that smelled of vanilla, could feel broader shoulders than you were familiar with. You shifted in his arms, feeling restless with every step he took – no, ran – away from the scorching heat._

_It was then, you realized, his voice was wrong, too._

_“Move out of the way!”_

_He wasn’t James._

_You were being placed on a surface, something hard with the pretense of a thin layer of cushioning. Arms slowly left from around you as a mask was placed over your nose and mouth, a blanket draped over your body. Before the hand could slip away, you grabbed onto it, clenching at it, sharp and unyielding, until the man stopped._

_Breaths a little deeper now, the dizziness in your head starting to clear, you opened your eyes. Steve Rogers was staring back at you; his face covered in soot, grey and black embers coating his clothes, some angry red marks along exposed skin._

_“Where is he?” you gasped, voice muffled by the mask, but he heard you well enough._

_He held your gaze for a moment, features of his expression unreadable and whether that was because of the faintness trying to pull you under again or his training as a fed, you didn’t know. Eventually, his eyes flickered back to the house and you followed his gaze to burning flames rising like demons from the window. You realized then it was the roar of their screams ringing in your ears._

_You shook your head, breaths picking up too fast._

_“Where is he?” you asked again, unwilling to believe what you already knew._

_“Y/n, I need you to calm down,” Steve urged gently, reaching out to you, but you flinched way._

_You started to push the blanket from your body, clawing at the mask, trying to remove yourself from the gurney, but then there were arms on you, holding you down._

_“You’re going to hurt yourself, kid. Stay still, will you?” Sam was behind you, gingerly swatting your hands from your mask to keep it in place._

_It felt like you were underwater. Every movement took tenfold the effort and it winded you, your arms moving almost in slow motion, incredibly weakened. Skin seared and hot, raw and exposed, singed nerve endings coating your body. Steve and Sam didn’t need to do much to keep you restrained._

_“James,” you whimpered, calling for him under whispered tones. The fires were uncontrollable. You could hear the sirens down the street though they felt miles away. “James, please… James…”_

_“He’ll be okay, Y/n,” Steve soothed, pulling the blanket back onto you while the EMTs started to check for your vitals. You nodded, feeling faint, like darkness was covering you._

_But then –_

BANG!

BANG! BANG!

BANG!

_You jolted up, wide eyed, alert, as everyone around you froze. Steve’s hands slacked, Sam stepped back, both staring up at the house in a moment of utter silence and dread. In their distraction, you bolted._

_You flung away the blanket, ripped off the mask, and threw yourself from the gurney. You were unsteady on your feet as you sprinted towards the house, stumbling over pavement._

_“Y/n!” Steve voice boomed from behind you, and before you could make it anywhere near the steps, his arms caged around your waist, pulling you back._

_“No!” you screamed out, cried, voice broken and raw. “James! James!”_

_You thrashed against him, desperate to jump from his hold and race right back into the flames of hell, but you were too weak and he was too strong and you were almost losing energy with every passing second._

_“Shh, I’ve got you. I’ve got you,” Steve whispered repeatedly, trying to calm you but you fought him with every step, even as he hulled you into his arms and you got a good hit to his jawline. He didn’t back down. He held you as you screamed, as you cried James’ name on an endless loop, until the effort drained you completely and you were met by the cool embrace of darkness._

***

You woke suddenly with a sharp gasp.

The first thing you noticed was that the air was clean, that you could breathe unfiltered and your lungs filled with a steady inhale. It didn’t take much effort and the dizziness had left your head. The room was white, machines beeping softly to your left.

In the top corner of the room, a television was bolted to the wall. On the screen, a woman in a red blazer was reading from a prompter, though you could hardly make out what she was saying. The image to her left displayed an emblem you recognized well with a skull at the center and tentacles emerging from its base. The chyron below read, _‘HYDRA EXPOSED: HUNDREDS ARRESTED IN CONNECTION TO ORGANIZED CRIME.’_

A sudden, high pitched beeping began to fill the room, picking up in pace. You felt it deep into your chest, too, and it only seemed to worsen as the image upon the television turned to a burning building with flames screaming high up into the night sky, smoke pillaring out from the windows, and foundation cracking to ash.

You tore your eyes from the screen to find a red-haired woman sitting in the chair beside you, legs crossed, nose deep in a file shielded by a manila envelope. 

Slowly, you pulled the oxygen support tubing from your nose.

“Where is he?” Your voice was still barely a whisper, trembling, and Natasha’s eyes shot up at you, almost stunned, _relieved_ , before she softened. 

“In the next room,” she replied steadily, nodding towards the wall behind her. “He refused to leave for your side for nearly six hours. I had to pry him out of here myself just to get some decent treatment to his burns and that hole in his shoulder. Nice shot by the way.”

She winked at you but your chest was still wrapped up in knots. You stared blankly back at her and she must have noticed the panic etched into your features, how your eyes keep glancing back up at the television and your hands clenched so tightly to your sheets it looked as though you could have ripped them to pieces between your fingers.

Natasha set down the file. “How much do you remember?”

Flashes of dim red lighting in the cargo hold of a ship. A painful grip to your wrist and a hand pressed over your lips. The cold concrete of a factory office under bare feet. James on his knees. Blood. So much blood. Pain. The wretched stench of gasoline. Heat. Smoke. Burning.

“I don’t—” you started, tears forming in your eyes as you tried to shake the images from your head. “I don’t know. It’s in pieces and none of it makes sense. I can’t—I can’t—”

“Maybe I can help,” she offered kindly. Always calm, always collected.

You nodded, staring into the gentle aura of green within her eyes, trying to find the words to begin. You exhaled a heavy breath, trying to alleviate the stone in your lungs.

“Before the house, before the fire, when Brock took me to that factory,” you started, hand curling to stop the shaking, nails digging into your palms, “he found out about James… that he was a fed. He made me… He made me shoot him and—and there was _so much blood_. He just kept bleeding and there—there shouldn’t have been that much blood—it doesn’t—it doesn’t make—”

Natasha’s hand circled yours, encasing it gently, pulling your attention to her. “It was a prop; part of the plan to kill off James Karpov on the way to the station. He activated it when you shot him to make it look fatal, thinking that if Rumlow thought you killed him, he might still preserve your allegiance to Hydra. Otherwise, your husband might have killed you then, too.”

She squeezed your hand. It hurt a little but it centered you enough to bring your breathing back down to an even pace. The machine beside you started to beat slower, the dizziness in your head released, and you focused on kind green.

“Brock already knew,” you whispered defeatedly. “He made me shoot James because he figured out that I— that we’ve been—” You closed your eyes, clenching your jaw.

Another squeeze. Gentler this time, but enough. “James gave you more time. He gave us the time we needed to find you.”

“He was in the house with me, wasn’t he?” you asked slowly. “He pulled me from the library. I remember—I remember him there… until he wasn’t.”

She nodded. “Yes. Steve was with him, too. I don’t know much of the details. All I know was the two of them went rushing in and Steve came out of that house a few minutes later with you in his arms. James was still inside.”

“The gunshots,” you gasped, the piercing echoes coming back to you suddenly, the beeping of your heart rate monitor quickly rising. “What happened? Is James—”

Natasha squeezed your hand again, stilling the words on your tongue as her eyes darted to the policeman stationed outside the room, his shoulder visible through the opening, his head tilted just slightly as if he was listening in.

“Why don’t I go let him know you’re awake?” she offered, smile pulling at her lips as she glanced hesitantly back at the guard. “I’m sure he can answer more than I can and I suspect he’s going to want to know you’re up.”

You nodded slowly, wiping tears from your eyes, though you clung to her hand. Cautious eyes glanced over her shoulder to the officer at the edge of your room.

“You’re safe, Y/n,” Natasha promised. “It’s over now.”

There was just something about Natasha that you believed every word she said. It could have been her exceptional training, her years of lying for a living, but you chose to believe it was her eyes. The kindness within gentle shades of green.

“Thank you,” you muttered out, clenching your jaw. You pushed out a smile for her, needing her to know that you meant it, even with the pulse of anxiety heavy in your veins. She understood, and with a final squeeze to your hand, she disappeared from the room.

You sighed; deep inhale, full on the exhale, and you let yourself glance down at your own wounds. The white bandages wrapped around your wrists where exposed wires had dug deep into skin and cut through flesh, patches of charred skin along your forearms, gauze attached by tape to the worst of it along your collarbone. Scrapes and cuts along your legs from the tree branches and roots behind the warehouse and a patch on your forehead from where you’d hit the dashboard. Battle wounds. 

A sudden clanging from the room over pulled your attention to the wall; the rustle of metal tools falling to the floor, the grunts of someone pushed to the side, the low grumble of aggravated nurses, and when you looked up to the doorway to your room, James was standing in the center, leaning against the frame, panting.

You froze, staring at one another. You couldn’t quite tell if it was disbelief or maybe shock in his eyes, but you imagined yours reflected more of the same.

The last you saw him, he was bleeding out on the concrete, eyes glazing over, and though you knew now that it was part of the act, it still felt real; the memories of it, the way Brock had taunted you in your library, the _fear._ That was all real. You still shot the man you loved, still held a gun to him as he was forced to his knees. You still did _that_.

It tore at you. Ripped you to pieces. But it all faded away the moment his lips parted. 

“Y/n?”

His voice was barely a whisper, broken, like maybe he was wondering if this was a dream.

You nodded, chewing on the dried edges of your lips.

And then, something wonderful happened.

A smile grew along his face, relief pouring through every ounce him, and he rushed into the room. His hands hovered over you, at your hands, then your elbows, up to your shoulders, before they finally landed on the sides of your face. Cupping at your cheeks ever so slightly, thumbs brushing delicately along your jawline, he choked back a laugh, tears slipping past his eyes.

“Hi,” you whispered, the smile in your cheeks touching the palms of his hands and he sat on the edge of your bed, leaning in to touch his forehead to yours.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

Then, you leaned up into him, closed the distance between you, and kissed him.

It was slow, like you’d hadn’t kissed him in centuries, and maybe you hadn’t, because every move of his lips, the taste of his touch, the light brush of his tongue, was heaven unlike you’d known. Your hands bunched into the fabric of his shirt, tugging him closer, because his lower lip caged between your own simply wasn’t enough.

You grinned against him in the freedom of kissing him the bright daylight of the window casting in behind you, the nurses and police officers walking by outside without a thought to the two people intertwined just a few feet away. No cliff to slip over the edge, no carpet to be pulled out from under your feet; just you and the man you loved, his lips on yours, and the glow of sun kissed light on your skin.

But then, he groaned, pulling back sharply as his hand rose to his left shoulder. He gritted his teeth, exhaling through a clenched jaw as he pressed into the tender muscle.

Worried eyes darted to the rise of a bandage hidden under his shirt. “Are you okay?”

He nodded, chuckling as he pushed down the pain, trying to pull you back to his lips. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Let me kiss you some more.”

“James!” you laughed, turning away so his lips kissed at your cheek and he let out a low playful groan. He sat back on the cot, tenderly sweeping back a strand of hair behind your ear, just studying you, like he was staring at one of the paintings hung in the Louvre. A loving mixture of awe and adoration marked in the blue of his eyes.

He paused, letting his hand fall to his side, the smile slowly creeping down along his lips. You watched him carefully as he took your hand into his own and began to play delicately with the lifeline running along your palm, careful to avoid the bandages at your wrists. He took a deep breath.

“Bucky.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Sorry, what?”

“My name,” he said slowly, nervously. “Bucky. It’s, uh, it’s short for—”

“Buchanan,” you finished as the memory of the name first spoken in the office of that factory where his arms were tied behind his back and forced down to his knees echoed to the forefront of your mind. He froze, swallowing thickly before he nodded.

“James Buchanan Barnes,” you said, testing it on your tongue, enjoying the way it felt. Mostly, that it felt _right._

Still, his muscles were tense as he watched you, listening as you said his full name again, like you were practicing, instilling it to your memory, to his identity in your mind.

He chewed on his lip, unsure, because you’d only ever known him as James, he wasn’t sure if you were ready to know Bucky, too, if you were interested in taking on life beside Bucky Barnes, special agent to the FBI, after years of being trapped behind Hydra.

“Bucky,” you called gently, noticing how he started to retreat into himself.

A shiver swept up his spine at the sound of his name in your voice, his eyes darting to the blankets at your waist.

“Bucky, look at me.” You slid your hand up his arm, letting it rest on his neck as you slowly guided his eyes to you. He sighed against your touch, leaning into it. “You are still my James. You will always be him to me. I will call you whatever you want me to and I know James is still technically your name but, I don’t know, Bucky has a nice ring to it. It suits you.”

He chuckled sweetly, nodding. “Just wasn’t sure if you were still gonna want Bucky Barnes when James Karpov was gone.”

“It’s just a name,” you replied sincerely. “You were always Bucky Barnes. A different name, a different job, but you were always _good_. You were always this man.”

Your hand settled in on his chest, touching fingertips to the quick thumping of his heartbeat until it began to even. He nodded, taking in what you said before he let himself smile again. “I tell you I love you lately?”

You laughed, pouting as you shook your head. “No, I don’t believe you have. Might want to fix that, Agent Barnes.”

“Well, I love you, sweetheart,” he said simply, confidently, because he knew it to be true above all else.

“I love you, too, Bucky Barnes.”

***

Hours later, your room had become a hub for Bucky’s team.

Steve leaned against the wall back the door, arms folded over his chest, leg propped up against the wall behind him, laughing as his chin dropped to his chest.

Sam sat on the windowsill, tossing a stress ball in the air and bouncing it off the glass, recalling an old story of their days in the academy when he would give Bucky a run for his money on the obstacle course, though Bucky adamantly denied it. You were grateful for the glimpse into his past, of the man you always knew him to be, but with different stories, different memories than the one who grew up in a life of crime.

Natasha was curled up in the chair beside your bed, knees to her chest, pretending to read through the file she’d been glancing through earlier, though you could tell from the smirk on her face that she was listening rather intently. She chuckled a little under her breath as Bucky and Sam started to bicker and she sent a wink in your direction when she caught you staring.

And Bucky – _your James_ – was sitting beside you on the small, twin sized cot. One leg hanging off the end as he propped you up to rest against his chest, his arm draped around you, a kiss to your crown every so often to remind you he was there.

It was perfect. It was exactly as it should be.

Bucky was in the middle of explaining exactly why Sam’s account of the events of their final physical testing course was wildly inaccurate when two men in suits stepped into the room, silencing him mid-sentence. Sam jumped up from the window, hand darting to the gun at his hip.

“Relax, Agent Wilson,” the man standing in front said as he removed the yellow lensed sunglasses. “My name is Supervisory Special Agent Clint Barton, and this here is my partner, SSA Pietro Maximoff.”

“What do you want?” Bucky replied flatly, his grip on you a little tighter. Steve held a hand up, easing him down.

“What can we do for you?” Steve said, standing out in front of Bucky.

Clint nodded, seemingly unsurprised. He clipped his sunglasses through the v of his button up, handing sliding into his pockets. “We need to collect a statement from Agent Barnes regarding the death of Brock Rumlow.”

You held onto Bucky’s hand, gripping it impossibly tight, and he encased his free hand over yours. No one said it aloud, but you knew. You had to. There were four gunshots inside your home as it burned to ash and only one of the two men inside walked out. It wasn’t hard to put the pieces together, but that didn’t make the tension in the room any lighter.

“Can’t this wait?” Bucky asked tensely.

“No, I’m afraid it can’t,” Clint stepped forward as Maximoff closed the door behind them, pen and pencil in hand. “A criminal that the Bureau been trying to apprehend for nearly a decade is dead and more than a years’ worth of federal funding has been wasted.”

“Hydra is in shambles. I wouldn’t call that wasted,” Sam grumbled from his place at the back of the room, a little too loudly under his breath for it to be anything but intentional. You glanced back at him with a short smirk and he winked at you.

“Things don’t always go as planned,” Bucky added, glaring down the unfamiliar agents. “You’d know that if you were on the front lines in the field and not behind a desk all day.”

Clint chuckled, exchanging a glance with his partner who remain stone faced, before he straightened his back. “It doesn’t give you a license to kill, Agent Barnes, even the likes of Brock Rumlow.”

The room was tense and you could feel it in Bucky’s body against you.

“Fine, but not here,” Bucky conceded, slowly beginning to pry himself out from your grip.

“Bucky, wait,” you gasped, panicked. Your eyes shot over to Clint and Maximoff, two men in suits you didn’t know, didn’t trust, who seemed to have it out for Bucky the moment they stepped into the room. You’d just found him again, finally got to hold him free of the chains that had been binding you for years, you couldn’t lose him now. _You couldn’t._

“Hey,” Bucky cooed sweetly, noticing the quick increase of the heart rate monitor beeping through the room. He leaned forward, pushing back your hair before he pressed a kiss to your forehead. “I’ll be right back, okay? I promise.”

He shot a glare to the agents by the door, a warning, and he pulled away. Clint and Maximoff exited quietly, waiting by the door to escort him like they though he might make a run for it. Bucky shared a look with Steve, who nodded in return, a silent conversation between them.

Then, he was gone.

“Will someone tell me what’s happening?” Your hands were curled to fists in the blankets draped over your lap. You were shaking, struggling to find your breath. Tear welled in your eyes, the lump of it muffled in your voice. “Where are they taking him?”

“No one’s taking him anywhere,” Steve replied steadily. “They’re just going to ask him a few questions.”

“They can’t prove shit anyway,” Sam scoffed, rolling his eyes as he waved his hand dismissively towards the door. “That whole place went up in flames, along with whatever evidence they think they might have against him. The only people who will ever know what went down in there are Barnes and Rumlow, and it looks like we’ve only got one left to tell the tale so—”

“Sam, cool it,” Steve warned, gesturing to you as you tucked your knees to your chest, wrapping your arms around your legs. Sam grimaced.

“He didn’t do anything wrong, Y/n,” Natasha said quietly, setting down the file. She scooted to the edge of the seat, leaning towards you. “I know Barnes and he doesn’t take the shot unless he absolutely has to. He’s not a killer, not even when it comes to Rumlow. He pulled the trigger for a reason and it was a damn good one. We have to believe that.”

You nodded, though your head was numb, pulsing, and you pressed your thumbs to your temples. “Do any of you know what actually happened?”

The room was silent, save for the high-pitched beeping of the heart monitor beside you and you quickly removed the sensor and threw it to the wall, tired of the painful pulsing it created in your head.

“There’s only his word,” Steve said, “and his word means a lot in the Bureau. He did what had to be done. I believe that. Besides, I don’t think Rumlow gave him much of a choice.” Steve took a deep breath, extending a hand out to the edge of your cot. “I know this must be hard for you, losing your—”

“I do not _mourn_ for my husband _,”_ you spat back, harsher than you meant to and Steve quickly nodded, pressing his lips to a thin line. He pulled his hand back to his side.

You sighed, trying to push the sudden anger from your chest, tight and hot, and you felt for the grooves in the plastic of the bed frame; each small tick and indent grounded you, reminded you to pull yourself down from the clouds and back into your body.

“Brock Rumlow was a monster. He deserved what he got.” You swallowed back a sharp burn of bile in your throat, releasing the sheets from between your fingers. “My only regret is that I didn’t pull the trigger myself.”

Steve bowed his head, hands in his pockets. “It’s not a burden you should have to carry.”

“Well, neither should Bucky,” you grumbled, shaking your head as tears burned on your cheeks. “I should have done more. I could have… I could have done _something!_ He put his life on the line again and again for me, for _Peter,_ and all I did is shoot him point blank for his troubles and get him in trouble with interal affairs…”

“Bucky makes his own decisions,” Steve stated sternly. He exchanged a short glance with Natasha and slowly crossed the room to pull up a chair beside your bed. “He’d make them again, too, I’m sure of it. Besides, we wouldn’t be where we are without you, Y/n. It’s your intel that dismantled Hydra. You gave us information that would have taken Bucky years to collect.” He pointed up at the television where images flashed of men in suits being escorted into the backs of police cars by the dozens. “You did _that_ , Y/n. You’re the reason Bucky can finally come home _. You_ brought down Hydra.”

“And you survived,” Natasha added warmly, though it carried a heaviness with it. She sat on the edge of your bed, a soft kind of smile resting on her lips. “It was all you needed to do. Survive. That within itself takes extraordinary strength. Forget all the files you brought us, all the testimony you wrote, all the names you exposed. You _survived_ , Y/n. Let that be enough.”

Your lips were agape. Tear marks slipping down over your cheeks as you stared at the two of them. There were no words that could quite explain the lifting of a stone straight from the center of your chest, so you grabbed their hands, squeezed them in your own and nodded. They understood.

A ding suddenly chimed out from behind you, startling you, and you turned to find Sam jumping down from the window, phone in hand. He waved it up in the air.

“Package just arrived downstairs!” He grinned, instantly pulling every thread of tension from the room with his smile and the bounce of his step. “I better go pick it up!”

“Package?” you questioned exchanging a look with Natasha who only shrugged, though you suspected she knew more. You wiped your cheeks surprised to find yourself smiling as you watched Sam scurry around the room in search of his ID. “Why did you get something delivered to the hospital?”

“Special request from Barnes,” Sam replied cheekily before quickly slipping from the room.

“Do you know what he’s talking about?” You turned to Steve.

He chuckled a bit under his breath and nodded. “It’s a good surprise. I promise.”

Once Sam was gone, the room fell into a slated silence again. You leaned back against the propped-up cot, settling in though it felt impossibly empty without Bucky. Natasha was back to her file, skimming over the endless pages as Steve settled into the chair beside you, glancing down at his phone.

To settle the anticipation in your stomach, you found yourself staring up at the television, surprised to see a familiar face walk behind the reporter in handcuffs, tie disheveled as he argued with the woman pushing him towards the car. Councilman Ward. He sat at your kitchen table with your husband in the early hours of the morning twice a month, whispering amongst themselves of campaign money and laundering schemes. You smiled.

A map appeared on the screen next, filled with small red dots littered across the country. The subtitles told you it was a mark for every Hydra affiliate who had been arrested in the last twenty-four hours. You shouldn’t have been surprised by the scale of it, how there was nearly as much red as there was land, but it still managed to startle you. You had thought it was a stone you could not crawl out from under. No— it was a boulder. It was a _mountain._

Then suddenly, you heard a storm of footsteps rushing down the hallway; commotion of papers flying, people yelping, and a quick ‘ _sorry!’_ and a blur of blue and red zipped straight past your room. You narrowed your eyes, looking to Steve who only shrugged.

“Will you _chill out,_ kid?! You passed it!” Sam shouted, standing outside your room, gesturing rather dramatically inside. He rolled his eyes, laughing as he made his way inside. He must have noticed the confusion on your face, because he winked at you before slipping back to his place on the windowsill.

Then that same blur of blue of red appeared in the doorway, panting, and your heart lurched.

“Peter?” you gaped, jolting up in the bed.

“Y/n!” Peter rushed into the room, throwing his backpack to the ground, and jumping up onto the bed. The bounce of it ached in your ribs from the sudden movement, but you couldn’t find it in you to care, not with how wide you were smiling.

“Peter, how did you get here?!”

“Oh man, you won’t even believe it!” he exhaled, scratching at the back of his head. “A police car rolled up at the house and these officers came knocking on my door saying they were there to escort me to the hospital and I was freaking out for… you know… _Hydra reasons_ ,” he glanced suspiciously at Steve, Sam, and Natasha, as they made themselves appear busy, though Sam didn’t attempt to hide his smirk, “but anyway, they said James sent for me and you know I trust that guy with my life, _clearly_ , so I jumped in the back and here I am!”

He was a little out of breath, nodding like he was making sure he remembered everything.

“Oh!” He exclaimed suddenly, forcing out a fit of laughter from you. “They said your house burnt down?!”

“Yeah,” you chuckled. “It’s a bit of a story, actually.”

“Aunt May won’t be home until late,” Peter shrugged, settling in at the foot of your bed. He pulled a granola bar from his pocket and began to unwrap it. “I’ve got time.”

***

By the time you were finished, Peter was sitting in stunned silence; mouth agape, half eaten bar hanging from his fingertips into his lap. Sam seemed to find the whole thing rather amusing as he was snickering to himself over your shoulder as Steve sent him a warning glare from across the room.

“Wait,” Peter started, holding his hand up, “you’re saying James has been a cop this whole time?!”

“Federal agent, actually.” Bucky appeared in the doorway, hands in his pockets, leaning against the frame as if he’d been standing there listening for a while and he grinned in your direction before he turned to Peter.

“James!” Peter jumped up from the bed, rushing towards him like he might give him a hug before he abruptly stopped himself. He awkwardly ran his hands through his hair, shuffling his feet. “Er, uh, _not-_ James…”

Bucky laughed at that, grabbed a hold of Peter’s shoulder and shaking him playfully. “Still James, technically. James Barnes. Friends call me Bucky.”

“R-Right,” Peter nodded nervously. “Mr. Barnes, I—”

“Pete.”

“Yeah?”

“We’re friends, aren’t we?”

A slow smile started to grow on Peter’s face as he nodded, his cheeks a little pink. “Yeah.”

“Ok then,” Bucky grinned, sliding by Peter to make his way back to you. “Call me Bucky, won’t you?”

“Yeah, okay,” Peter chuckled nervously as he sat back down at the foot of your bed. “Thanks, Bucky. I’m, uh, glad you’re not a cold-blooded serial killer.”

You burst into laughter as Sam nearly lost his footing against the window, doubling over in hysterics. You leaned forward despite the pain in your ribs and ruffled Peter’s hair until he was laughing, too.

“Anytime, kid,” Bucky chuckled, shaking his head as he started to gently rake his fingers along your scalp, letting you lean into him as his hip dipped the edge of the bed. He nestled in beside you, wrapped an around your shoulders, a short kiss to your temple, curled against you where he belonged.

It didn’t take long for Peter to lighten the room. He was off in conversation with Sam and Steve, asking about a thousand questions that would have made just about anyone else want to pull their hair out, but those two seemed to enjoy it. Even Natasha was smirking from behind the shield of her file. Peter just had that kind of energy about him.

“So,” you started, quietly turning to Bucky as he drew his fingers in patterns along your arm, careful of the bandages on your wrists, “how did it go? Is everything okay?”

Bucky nodded, a soft sort of smile on his face. Something like hope. “It will be.”

“You’d tell me even if it wasn’t?”

“Of course,” he said simply. You felt the press of his lips to your forehead, a gentle touch in the warmth of his breath. “I swear to you Y/n, everything from here on out is _nothing_ compared to what’s behind us.” He must have felt the tension still present within your shoulders because he added quietly, “no one is taking me from you again, okay? It’s over. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

Bucky knew why you were asking. It was the fear woven through the back of your chest, waiting for the rug to slip out from under you. You’d spent years living under the threat of a man who left eggshells under the bare of your feet. You’d learned that your safety came at a price and there were shadows lurking in every corner to snatch the relief straight from your chest. You were waiting for the shoe to drop.

“Promise me,” you whispered, curling up against him.

“On my life.” No hesitancy. Not a single beat had passed. Bucky wrapped his arms tighter around you, pulling you gently to rest against his chest.

You nodded, letting yourself sit back against him as you played gently with the palms of his hands. To your left, Sam was telling Peter old stories of their adventures over the years in the academy and traveling the world under assumed names and identities. Peter just stared at him, wide eyed and transfixed, hanging on every word. It was in moments like these that you remembered how young he was; a boy, a teenager, caught up in a world of violence at the hands of your husband.

You squeezed Bucky’s hand, safe in the knowledge that he secured Peter’s immunity from what you were sure would be the most publicized trial of the decade. Even with Brock dead, there were still dozens, if not _hundreds_ , of Hydra players being arrested across the country now that their payrolls have been exposed; everyone from city board members, CEOs and businessmen, to shifty underground dealers and professional criminals.

This man who walked into your life as one of your husband’s enforcers, a man of violence and crime, who took you from the shadows of that home and reminded you of who you used to be before your husband muted and muffled every piece of you.

This wonderful man who made you smile again, who left butterflies in your stomach, who just by a simple look across the room could make you melt.

A light kiss to the crown of your head, a warm brush of lips, his breath upon your skin and his heart beating soundly against your back.

It was in his arms that you remembered what it was like to be held by something gentle and kind, to know affection within the smallest of moments, to love and be loved in return. It was in his arms, you could finally rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one more chapter to go! thanks to everyone for sticking with me in this one!


	20. Epilogue

“Agent Barnes, I thought I kicked you out when visiting hours ended last night.”

The stern voice of one of your nurses emerged from the doorway; a no-nonsense middle-aged woman named Rosa, who wore bright blue eye shadow and a silver cross hanging around her neck. Hands planted firmly on her hips, her eyes narrowed upon Bucky as he slowly raised his head from the edge of your cot. Sleep lines were carved into his cheeks and a painful crack snapped in his neck as he stretched it to the side, having slept hunched over from the folding chair placed beside you.

“You may have mentioned it,” he chuckled nervously, massaging the stiff muscles in his shoulder.

“And yet, you’re still here.” Rosa rolled her eyes, slowly making her way into the room to begin checking the vitals on the monitor at your bedside. “You’re lucky we’re discharging her today. Your flashy gold badge was about at its end of favors around here.”

She must have been expecting a quick remark or a joke of some kind because she seemed surprised as she turned to find Bucky smiling ear to ear, focus turned entirely to you as you slept soundly; bandages now absent from your burns as they’d begun to heal, life renewed back to your skin, a steady rise and fall of your breaths.

“Y/n can come home?”

Rosa sighed, a slow smile pushing up on her own lips. She was a tired woman and she’d seen a lot in her years, but she’d come to like Bucky, even if he was a major pain in her ass.

“Yes, Agent Barnes. She can go home.”

It had been nearly a week. A week of sleeping in positions that were sure to cause permanent damage to his back. A week of holding your hand as nurses tended to the burns on your skin. A week of smooth talking the night shift into letting him stay past visiting hours and using hospital showers and eating mediocre cafeteria food.

But now, you could come home.

Only, he wasn’t quite sure where home was anymore.

“Bucky?” Voice groggy and filled with sleep, you slowly opened your eyes, smiling sweetly up at Rosa as she finished making down your vitals.

“Ready to get out of here?” Bucky grinned, pulling your hand up to his lips to kiss your knuckles.

A smile began to light up in your eyes, but something went wrong along the way. It disappeared as quickly as it arrived, replaced with the harsh reality of burning fires and a mansion up in smoke. It wasn’t much of a home but it was the only home you had. Bucky’s stomached twisted in on itself.

“I…” you started, stare falling down to the floor. “I don’t have anywhere to go.”

Bucky already had suitcases full of clothes at his apartment for you, a dozen series of books lined up on the kitchen table, toiletries that Natasha purchased at his request filling baskets under the bathroom sink. He even had Sam and Steve clean the place spotless, much to their reluctance. It was ready for you. _He_ was ready for you. But he needed it to be a choice.

“Steve said the Bureau would put you up in a hotel until you could find an apartment,” Bucky offered, though he could tell quickly from the way your eyes shifted just slightly it wasn’t a good option. You squeezed his hand. Bucky nodded, asking, “what about May’s place? I’m sure Peter would love to have you over.”

“Aunt May’s got enough on her plate. She doesn’t need me to take care of, too.” You shook your head, a heavy breath nestled into your chest.

Tears were starting to well in your eyes, an aching kind of helplessness he’d only seen in you in the moments you were forced to submission beside your husband, a lingering sort of emptiness, a loss, and it nearly ripped Bucky straight in half.

“Stay with me,” he blurted out. He clenched his jaw, cursing at himself, because he was supposed to be a lot smoother about the preposition. 

Your eyes snapped up to his; wide, suspicious. “…What?”

“Come home with me,” Bucky offered again, firmer, _sure._ “Stay with me. I know my place is small but I’ve got the room. I’ll buy you all the tea you can drink and line the windowsills with plants I can’t easily kill. Whatever you need, I’ll get it for you. What do you say, sweetheart?”

Chewing on the edge of your lip, you could hardly hold his eye. “I can’t ask you to take me in Bucky…”

“You’re not asking,” he replied quickly. “I’m offering.”

He could still see the hesitancy in your face, the quick flash of your stare to his shoulder. It had healed faster than the divots around your wrists and still, the guilt managed to find its way inside you. It crept around the light and slithered through the shadows no matter how many times Bucky had tried to pry it away.

“It will make me feel better,” Bucky tried, recalling the first night in the hospital he’d been sent away after visiting hours. He’d come back the next morning to find dark circles under your eyes and tear marks down your cheeks. You’d clung to him for hours just trying to reassuring yourself he was really there, that the monster in your dreams hadn’t left to him to the flames instead. Leaving you alone after that wasn’t an option.

“Please, sweetheart,” Bucky urged, squeezing your hand a little tighter. “Let me take care of you. It’ll be temporary, okay? Until we can find a place of your own.”

It seemed to lessen the tension clenched into your jaw at least. He would have asked you to move in entirely if he thought you were ready for it. He could spend the rest of his life surrounded by dozens of bookshelves and mugs half filled with tea from the night before, cozy blankets thrown over the back of the couch and more pillows than he could count upon the cushions. He could spend an eternity with you.

But even with the monster slain, there were still demons in the closet; nightmares that were sure to plague your sleep, shadows that would set panic in your veins at every corner, guilt that will swept its way into the darkest corners of your mind. There were still evils to protect you from, it seemed. 

“Okay,” you nodded, letting a smile brush up at the ends of your lips.

“Nat’s already got everything you could need waiting for us back at my place,” he told you as he quickly began gathering your things from around the room; books Peter had brought you from his school’s library, empty Styrofoam cups half filled with over steeped tea, and newspapers highlighted in yellow marks with names of Hydra affiliates who were now sitting behind bars.

Hands filled with various belongings, Bucky turned back to find you watching him intently, a shy kind of smile on your face. “What?”

“You’ve been planning this, haven’t you?”

Bucky shrugged, sliding the books and papers into his bag and tossing the spare cups into the bin. He brushed a hand through his hair, tugging on it a little as he pushed it behind his ears. “Is that so crazy? After everything we went through to get here, I couldn’t stand the thought of you being anywhere else. Gotta keep an eye on my girl, don’t I?”

You smiled and it lit up right into your eyes. “The case is over, Buck. You don’t have to protect me anymore.”

Bucky shook his head, leaning forward as a hand swept back along your hair and nestled against your neck. He pressed a short kiss to your crown. “We may be free of Hydra, but that part of my job won’t ever go away. I will always protect you, sweetheart. From drug dealers and mafia kingpins to broken AC units and empty tea boxes; doesn’t matter. I’m there.”

The damn near sweetest laugh he’d ever heard filled the room as you swatted him away. It made his stomach twist, his heart sing, his cheeks hurt from how wide his was smiling. Happiness was a sort of foreign, strange feeling, but it wasn’t one he planned on letting slip him by.

***

Another week later and Bucky could look around the apartment and find pieces of you everywhere. The mug resting on the end table in the living room, still steeping the remnants of last night’s tea. The blanket thrown over the back of the kitchen chair from when you wondered out of his room in the early morning with a chill. The second toothbrush in the cup by the sink. The sweet smell of your lotion on the dresser. The pantry filled with popcorn and Oreos.

You’d started to turn his place into a home.

It became quite domestic, a different sort of comfort, to wake up to the smell of bacon and watch you making breakfast in the kitchen, to brush his teeth next to you in the bathroom at night as you washed your face, to see the way the pillows creased to your cheeks and the way you tried to stifle yawns in the morning.

But there was a new kind of intimacy of sharing his home with you, one that grew to challenge every restraint he ever possessed.

He’d seen you change into your pajamas in the corner of his room, the whole of your bare back facing him, the dips and curves of your spine as you caught him staring, a soft smile over your shoulder. He’d seen the outline of pebbled nipples through your tank top as you ate breakfast across the kitchen table, hair still messy with sleep. He’d seen the way you looked at him in the mornings, when he woke to a hardened length between his legs and his cheeks flushed red as he muttered out apologies.

He’d tried to prolong it, knowing that you’d been through an imaginable loss, even if it was never really yours to begin with. You’d been through a world of trauma and he knew how messy things could get if he pushed you too fast. It wasn’t a risk he was willing to take. Not until you made it clear that you were as needy for him as he was for you.

If he let himself notice the signs, perhaps he would have realized you’d been aching for him earlier, but it still came as a surprise when you ran your hand along his thigh as you watched an old rerun of The Fugitive. You brushed over his length, smiling to yourself as he shuddered out a tense breath and tried to readjust in his seat.

“Careful,” he warned, staring at the television though a smirk started to curve at his lips.

“You don’t need to hold back anymore,” you told him simply. Your fingers expertly drew along the outline of his cock, pressed hard up against the thin layer of sweats. Pumping him sweetly over excess fabric, you leaned up and pressed your lips to his neck. “Let me love you.”

Bucky exhaled a shaken breath, hand sliding around the couch in search of the remote, the movie long forgotten. “You’re sure?”

You smiled against his jawline, peppering kisses along his edges until you landed sweetly against his lips. “Always.”

Bucky scooped you up into his arms, the pain in his shoulder nothing but a distant memory as he carried you to the bed. After setting you upon the mattress, Bucky quickly stripped himself of his clothes, tugging at your sleep shorts with fevered haste as you laughed, swatting his hands away and doing it yourself. 

Hearts racing like it was the first time, and maybe it was, because there were no more shadows lurking in the corners, no demons to invade tiny glimpse of heaven you shared.

Bucky kissed his way down your body, mapping a trail to the soft crease at your legs, touching so sweetly to the most intimate parts of you until his lips latched around the bundle of nerves between your legs. Arms curling around your thighs, nose brushing over soft curls, nestled tight against the woman gave his life to.

He pulled gasps and whimpers from you, withering underneath him as he held you down, drawing the most beautiful sounds he could imagine. Your nails raked to his scalp and as you came, his tongue sweet with the taste of you. You whispered you loved him.

He knew. He’d heard it enough times but every time was like the first. It still surprised him, knowing you could love him after all you’d been through; that you could trust anyone after the web of lies and manipulation Rumlow had put you through, after you were taken advantage of and used and made to be the property of a vile man, and somehow, you still had room in your heart for love. It felt impossible, and yet, here you were, kissing him like his touch wasn’t enough, like you needed _more_ , need _him._

When he sank into you, your hand gripped at his shoulder, a soft whine in your voice as he waited patiently for you to adjust. You exhaled a heavy breath, aching and sore and eager, but your fingers paused at his arm, tracing over the light pink scar there, the raised edges and bubbled skin.

Before you could say anything, Bucky dipped down and kissed your lips, nudged your hand to his hair. He smiled at you, something soft and tender, and whatever was wrestling in your mind slipped away. 

You push a strand of hair behind his ear, drawing it away from his face, just admiring. It wasn’t something you were used to having the time for; always so rushed, always looking over your shoulder and waiting for the foundation to crack. You’d always reveled in the looked across the room and the heated love you made. It was a privilege to spend time in the moments between.

Bucky rolled his hips, stretching along your walls. Your eyes fluttered shut, breaths shaken, and you gripped him tighter, urging him on.

It took a moment to find his rhythm, perfectly in tune with the cry of the bed frame, the gasps of your breaths, the low moans from his own lips; a symphony between you, building, crashing, higher and higher until–

“ _Ah,_ oh God, _Bucky_ — don’t stop _—_ ”

It almost knocked him out on the spot, almost stopped him dead in his tracks. His eyes shot to you, though you were too far gone to notice; lips parted, eyes closed, so close to the edge. He didn’t dare stop the snap of his hips to yours, didn’t dare pull his hand from your clit, but took a moment to memorize this feeling, this warmth deep in his chest. The sound of his name on your lips, etched in pleasure and love and need.

“I’ve got you, love,” he mewled to your ear, bringing you over the edge with a prolonged cry, your hands digging into the bare of his back as he chased his own release. He came only a few thrusts later, spilling into you, the weight of him dropping to your chest.

Fingers carding gently through his hair, coaxing the racing beat of his heart. His favorite place. His safest place. In your arms.

***

You’d started to find yourself again in the weeks after. You’d gone up to Columbia and spoken with old colleagues. You’d made arrangements to meet with the Dean in hopes of discussing your future in academia again.

Bucky could hardly contain his pride the day you’d walked back into the apartment, beaming from ear to ear, and told him about all the friends you’d missed who welcome you back with open arms, the campus that looked completely the same, and your office that remained vacant.

He’d spun you in his arms, your laugh filling the small Brooklyn apartment, and Bucky couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen you so happy. It was heaven when you smiled like that, like for the first time in a while you had the chance to be who you were always supposed to be, the freedom to make choices without permission.

You started to let yourself become comfortable in the woman you were before Brock Rumlow stormed his way into your life. You smiled enough for your cheeks to ache, laughed loud enough to bring butterflies to Bucky’s stomach, left books around on every surface and mugs of unfinished tea on the counters. You lived in oversized sweaters and ripped jeans and messy hair down by your shoulders. You hummed to yourself as you cooked and danced your way through the bathroom with a towel wrapped around your head and a bathrobe tugged tight at your waist.

It was a relief, to see you like this; so at ease in your own skin, enough so that Bucky started to find pieces of himself he too left behind to his years undercover.

He traded the black jeans and bomber jackets for worn out Levi’s and t-shirts, the tension in his shoulders for the soft brush of your hands down his back, tugging out the knots he’d built over the last year. He started to let the stubble on his cheeks grow, cast over in a shadow along his jaw and obstruct the faded scars he’d obtained at the hands of your ex-husband. 

Then, when Bucky grew tired of seeing a man he didn’t recognize in the mirror, he made a drastic change.

“Buck?” you called into the apartment, arms filled to the brim with grocery bags as you kicked the door shut behind you. “Could use some help!”

“Comin’, sweetheart!” Bucky jogged his way into the kitchen and started to pull the bags from your hands when you finally caught sight of him, let out a yelp, and nearly dropped the milk cartoon to the ground. Bucky dove for it at the last second, securing it before it could explode to the hardwoods.

“Your hair!” you gasped, staring at him with wide eyes.

Bucky clenched his jaw, nodding in acknowledgement of the cut he’d had done while you were out on your errands; short and tight to the sides of his head, full and swept back on the top. He set the groceries down on the counter and when he turned back to look at you, you had already crossed the plane of the kitchen, hands rifling up through his hair and messing away any of the product his barber had styled in.

“Do you hate it?” he grimaced, noticing how you’d tugged your lower lip between your teeth. You were silent for a moment, studying him, and Bucky’s stomach nearly turned over on itself. But then, you softened, gently rubbing your thumb down along his temple and he sank into the feeling.

“This is what Bucky Barnes looks like, isn’t it? The long hair was part of the cover,” you smiled, settling his hair back in place as your hands slipped down over his cheeks, brushing over the grown in stubble. You remembered the image you’d seen in the factory office with Brock, the photographs thrown in rage of a man with short brunette hair and golden badge draped around his neck.

“Yeah,” Bucky admitted, stomach twisting a little. You’d known him as James Karpov for so long, gotten so used to the name and face and the fall of his hair down by his shoulders. He knew he looked different, a few years younger maybe, and it was a change. A big change. One he wasn’t certain you’d like, but he needed it off. He needed to be himself again in every sense he could, to wash himself clean of Hydra and the man he’d left to the fire.

“Well, Bucky,” you sighed, leaning up to press a kiss to his cheekbone, just over the faded pink scar, and then, to his lips. “I love it. Might miss having something to tug on, though.”

You winked over your shoulder as you started making your way to the bedroom, holding his stare with that devilish kind of look in your eye, until you slipped your sweater up and over your head, dropping it to the floor in the hallway. Bare back exposed to him, you sauntered inside to the warm embrace of sun-kissed light filtering in through the windows and Bucky chased after you, laugh heavy in his chest, the groceries long forgotten on the counter. 

***

It was the day Bucky’s name was cleared by Barton and Maximoff; the day the remains of your old home were removed of their crime scene tape and left to be weathered until the city stoke its claim upon the land and bulldozed the ruins.

As Bucky pulled the car into park, you found yourself staring up to the charred ashes of a home that had once kept you caged prisoner. The memory of the flames was still seared in the back of your mind; the heat of the fire burning at your skin, the smoke filling your lungs, the dizziness in your head, the panic as the gunshots went off. You could still feel how your heart had broken free from your chest and the stones embedded under bare feet as you rushed towards the fire, Steve’s arms circling around you to hold you back as a scream ripped its way through your lungs.

“Y/n?” Bucky’s voice called softly, tugging you back from the memory. He was standing outside the passenger door, extending a hand to you.

You turned to the driver’s seat, not having realized he’d even left his place beside you. Your eyes flickered from his hand back to the house.

“They really ruled it self-defense?” you asked for the second time that morning as Bucky helped ease you from the car. You looped your hand at the crook of his arm, tucking in close to him as you both made your way to the ruins of a home you loathed.

“Like I said, doll,” Bucky replied, ever so patiently, “the only evidence they have is my word. Everything else is up in smoke.”

“So… was it?” you asked, pausing for a moment as you looked up at Bucky. “Self-defense?”

He sighed, a heaviness inside him alongside the truth. Your free hand reached up along the side of his face, cupping at his cheek sweetly to coax his eyes back to you. You nodded at him, like you already knew the answer and you were simply waiting to hear it from him. There was no judgement between you, no secrets, and he had no interest in ever lying to you again.

“Yes,” he exhaled, wholehearted, because he did genuinely believe it. “The law might not see it that way, but it was. In defense of you, anyway. A jail cell wouldn’t stop a man like Rumlow from coming after you, from pulling strings and making orders even with Hydra disbanded. I should have known that from the start. He threatened your life, Y/n. He didn’t give me any other choice.”

“I know,” you told him and a weight fell from his shoulders. “You forget that I know Brock better than almost anyone. I know what he’s like when he’s pushed to a corner. You did what you had to, Bucky. I believe that.”

A solemn smile pushed at his cheeks, small and subtle, but it was rooted in a disbelief, in an awe, that he could have ever managed to find someone as loving and understanding as you. For you to love him, despite his flaws, despite the blood on his hands behind the guise of a shiny gold badge, was unimaginable. He still didn’t quite understand it and yet here you were, tucked against his arm, cheek to his shoulder as you stared up at the charred ashes of your home.

“You sure you want to do this?” he asked gently, tense in his shoulders as he glared at the remains of the mansion that kept you prisoner.

You nodded and there was an ease in it, a calm, you didn’t have before.

Bucky let you lead him up to the what remained of the front door. The second story was completely caved in; only pieces of the foundation and walls still standing. It was black, covered in soot, and you stepped through the archway where the door would have been.

Inside, the staircase still remained, though it was withered and degrading, and there were bones of old furniture and the outline of the brick fireplace at the edge of the living room. You didn’t pause before you turned down the hall to the left and perhaps, Bucky shouldn’t have been surprised as he followed your lead to the library.

You paused for a moment as you came upon the opening. The left door was still unhinged, thrown under the frame like a bridge from when Steve attempted to suffocate the flames long enough for you and Bucky to escape. The chair still placed at the center of the room where you’d been bound and tied and left to the vengeance of the fire.

You released yourself from Bucky’s side, slowly slipping away as you stepped into the burned remains of your library.

Bucky watched from a careful distance as you wandered around the room, giving you space to grieve. Your hand trails along the broken shelves, black with soot, and you examined the black ash upon your fingers as you pulled away.

It was all a memory now. Everything that you built, everything that kept you safe and sane and secure those years trapped within this home with a man you despised. It was all gone.

You paused at the corner of the room, shoulders sinking, and you slowly bent down to the floor until you picked up the charred remains of a novel. Hardcover, black soot coating the binding, crumbled bits of burnt paper spilling out the edges as you stood. You sighed, brushing your hand over the title, the colors and design on the front hardly recognizable if not for the high school library tag on the binding.

_A Farewell to Arms._

You tugged the book to your chest, its words long lost to the fire, the edges burned black and unreadable, but it survived. You didn’t dare open its pages to see if Bucky’s childhood scribbles remained. A tear slipped past your cheek.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky said quietly, shuffling his feet. You looked back at him under a furrowed brow, the book in your hand slipping down to rest at your side. Bucky exhales, looking around to the aisles empty of the novels you cherished, their pages consumed in the fire. “You lost so much here.”

You smiled sweetly at him before you shook your head, looking back to the room in fondness. “It’s what this room represents that matters.”

“But your collection–”

“I’ll start again,” you replied simply, reaching out for his hand, gesturing him towards you. Bucky took it graciously and you squeezed his hand, gently nudging his shoulder with your own. “Feels right, doesn’t it? A new start.”

You sighed, staring out to the rows of empty shelves, the piles of ashes on the floor beside them. The couch you’d spent so many nights curled up under blankets and a warm cup of tea in your hands, where you’d read for hours to escape from the monsters outside the doors, where Bucky decided to tell you who he was, where he made love to you in a rushed heat. The windowsill once filled with a beautiful array of plants, where only the broken clay pots remained, the glass of the window burst to the floor alongside broken remains of the ceiling.

Bucky followed your gaze, feeling a loss in his own chest for the room that he came to know you in. This was your sanctuary, your safe haven. This was the room that was completely and entirely yours within a home constructed to be cold and shallow. It was your escape.

But this room meant a great deal to Bucky, too.

“I fell in love with you in this room, you know,” he said fondly, looking to the charred remains of the couch where he’d read next to you for house, where you’d fallen asleep on his shoulder, and he started coming up with reasons not to leave.

He found you staring up at him when he looked back to you, that sweet kind of smile on your face as you slipped your free hand up against his cheek and brought his lips to yours. Soft and warm, the soothing motion of your lips between his, on his, the slip of his tongue gently along yours, and he pulled away with final kiss to your cheek, your nose, then the crown of your head as he wrapped his arms around you.

Surrounded by the ashes of a room that protected you from the monsters beyond its doors.

A room that served as a safe haven.

A room you opened to the stranger with kind, blue eyes and a sweet smile.

“Let go home,” you mumbled to the collar of his shirt, breath warm against the fabric and Bucky felt a skip in his chest for a moment before he settled.

Home. He liked the sound of that.

***

**T H R E E M O N T H S L A T E R**

It was a Monday morning, the first of many, because you were starting your position back at Columbia. The first day of school was always a bit intimidating, even as a professor, even knowing half the staff was eagerly awaiting your return and the fact that your class had filled to capacity in the first few minutes of course selection.

That hadn’t happened even when you were at the height of your career, but you supposed your name plastered across the media and your connection to the takedown of Hydra had something to do with it. You suspected the influx of criminal justice majors were more interested in your time in Hydra than they were in 19th century literature. You didn’t mind, though. It was an opportunity to spark a love for something they didn’t know they had yet.

And maybe you’d throw in some mafia stories to keep up the intrigue and bait for class participation.

You tucked the edge of your shirt into the front of your pants, slipped on a cardigan over your shoulders, and tossed your hair up into a bun before you made your way out into the kitchen. The moment you opened the door, you were met with a waft of smoke as the fire alarm began to cry. 

Bucky was at the stove, apron draped over the bare of his chest, sweatpants covered in stains of pancake mix as he grumbled to himself. You bit back a laugh, leaning against the wall to watch him rush around the kitchen, waving towels in the air in hopes to break up the smoke and cursing at the alarm to _‘shut the hell up you stupid piece of–’_

“Hi, honey.”

Bucky spun around, clearly startled as he held a spatula between his hands gripped like a vice.

“Y/n! I, uh, I didn’t think you’d be ready so fast,” he chuckled nervously, trying to wipe the flour from his forehead, though he only made it worse. He glanced back at the mess of the kitchen, the burned pancakes piled on the plate and the sizzling pan behind him. “I made pancakes…?”

“Did you?” you teased, biting down on your lip to keep from smiling too wide and bruising his pride more than it already had been.

“I tried anyway,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair, leaving particles of white flour amongst his dark brown waves. His lips curved down to a frown as he chewed on the inside of his cheek, feet shuffling at the floor. “It’s a big day for you. Wanted it to be special.”

You smiled, heart warm as it’s ever been. “It’s always special with you, Buck.”

Bucky looked up at you, a teasing in his eyes as he shook his head, low, defeated. “Ah, don’t try and make me feel better about this mess, love. It won’t work.”

“You sure?” you asked slowly, making your way up to him and placing your hands against the expose skin on his hips. “Not even if I…”

A kiss to his cheek.

Then, his neck.

Finally, at the corner of his mouth, not quite close enough.

“Huh-uh, not even then,” he exhaled, though his grin was betraying him. “Give it one more try though, will you?”

You laughed, smiling so wide it hurt. “You’re relentless, you know that?”

Bucky shrugged, a slight nod in agreement he leaned in to kiss you. His hand reached behind him, like he was trying to steady himself against the cabinets, but the stove was still bright red, still scalding hot from where the pan has been.

 _“James!”_ you yelped in a panic, yanking him hard away from the stove before his hand could touch it. Your heart was pounding as you held him against the sink. He was still against you and you realized then what you’d said.

Your eyes trailed up to him slowly, embarrassed, and you found him smiling sweetly at you, always patient, always kind.

“I’m sorry, I—I didn’t mean—”

“It’s alright, doll,” Bucky replied genuinely brushing the flyaways from your face with the hand that had nearly been seared clean by the stone top. “I don’t mind if you call me James.”

“No, I– I remember how important it was for you that I knew your name when I couldn’t and I—” you sighed, leaning into his touch as you lost yourself in the feel of him gently coaxing the doubt away. He leaned down a pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“You can call me anything you want, sweetheart,” he said simply. “I get to come home every night knowing that it’s you I’m waking up to every morning. You can call me _anything_ as long as I get to do that.”

You laughed through the swell of tears in your eyes. Bucky reached behind him and turned the stove off to ease your conscious. With a quick glance at the clock, your heart skipped, realizing you were already running late.

“I’ve got to go!” you yelped, half laughing as you raced around the room. Bucky stood back and watched, arms folded over his chest, something like pride and joy bolstering in his heart.

“Pete’s coming over after school, alright?” Bucky called to you as you quickly threw on your shoes. “He’s got some project for his forensics class and I promised I’d help him out.”

“Y-yeah, uh-huh, sounds good!”

Bucky chuckled as you raced back into the bedroom to grab your bag with one sleeve of your coat on. “Steve is picking me up in an hour to help filter out recruits but I’ll probably be back before you are.”

“Okay!” You rushed into the living room, a little winded though you were giddy with excitement. You pressed a quick kiss to his cheek before you sprinted to the door, though you paused, freezing in the open doorframe as you glanced back to Bucky.

He stood leaning against the counter, a mess of homemade pancake mix around him; this lethally trained special agent who woke up early on a Monday to absolutely destroy the kitchen in an attempt to make you breakfast, with a light pink apron draped around his neck and flour coating his forehead.

“I love you,” you said simply. You’d told him enough times but it still felt like an admission. You liked to remind him, liked to say it as often as you could because it was a choice to love him, a part of you that you were finally able to let the sunlight touch. You’d shout it to the world.

Bucky shook his head, laughing, as he leaned against the counter. “Love you, too, sweetheart.”

He smiled back at you, something genuine and loving unlike you’d know in years. The same smile that allowed you to trust him nearly two years ago, the smile that reminded you what it was like to feel butterflies in your stomach and to miss someone when they were gone. Wrinkles up by his eyes, dimples in his cheeks. A brightness of a man who gave _everything_ just to give you a choice again, to let you decide your own fate, to free you from the chains of a man who would have rather seen you burn than love anyone but himself.

The man who saved you, who held your hand and danced with you on garden view balconies, who loved you enough to run through fire. The man who risked his career, his _life,_ on his trust in you. The man who reminded you that you were more than you were told, who showed you how to smile again, who brought back your laugh and put joy into your heart.

The man who ushered you to through the door to your first day back at work, who encouraged you to find your place in the world again, who give you the space to reconnect with old friends, who held your hand gripped tightly in his own and willingly chose to follow where you led. He opened doors and waited for you on the other side. He gave you choices, a new life, a new start.

The man you adored. The man you loved.

Your Bucky.

Your James.

Your everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seriously can’t believe its been months of you guys sticking with me on this series week after week ❤️ I’m going to miss that so much and can’t begin to express how much the love and support for this series has meant to me. I do plan on doing headcannons/drabbles/bonus one shots at some point and I'll add them onto the end of this series, so keep an eye out 😘


	21. Bonus Chapter: Call to Action

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> based on the request: “hiii i’m really curious what’s gonna happen if bucky gets assigned to work undercover again? 🥰“ by @sarge-barnes-sir on tumblr ❤️

You woke to an empty bed; sunlight streaming in delicately from the soft overlay of ivory curtains and the soothing scent of a freshly steeped tea at your bedside, steam still rising from the mug. Stretching your arms up over your head and then out to the sides, you frowned as your fingers curled around the empty sheets beside you.

“You can’t ask me to do that, Steve,” Bucky’s hushed voice carried from the kitchen.

You turned to the door, narrowing your eyes upon the thin crack in its frame. It wasn’t unusual for Steve to be at the apartment, but the clock to your left told you it was far too early for a friendly visit. Judging by the tone in Bucky’s voice, it couldn’t be anything good. 

“It’s not me, Buck. It’s way over my head.”

You quietly pushed aside the sheets, setting bare feet on the hardwood floors and grabbed for the robe hanging over the bathroom door. You slipped it quickly through your arms and wrapped it at the waist before you carefully pushed open the door. Disregarding the state of your hair laying frizzy and untamed at your shoulders, you crept down the hall.

Bucky was pacing in the kitchen, hands clenching at his sides, head shaking defiantly as he muttered under his breath. Steve sat at the table, watching with every stride Bucky took as he laid back into the chair; though the rigidity of his posture betrayed the calm persona he put on.

“I’m not going back under,” Bucky asserted. He didn’t seem to notice you emerge from the hallway as he continued to pace divots into the tile of the kitchen floors, but Steve did. His back straightened, his expression melting into something mirroring an apology as he met your eye.

“I’ve been out for almost a year,” Bucky continued, stare focused on the floor, tunnel-visioned and disregarding Steve’s attempts to draw his attention to you. “I told Fury I was done, Steve. He can’t pull me back in! Hydra was my last job and I’m– I’m not leaving Y/n after everything we went through. So… So, you can tell Fury to fuck off!”

An unsettling silence took over; only Bucky’s muffled footsteps and labored breaths carrying through. You hadn’t realized how tightly your jaw had clenched until you tried to speak.

“They’re sending you undercover again?”

Bucky froze dead in his tracks, his head snapping up to find you watching him from the hallway. His eyes were wide, lips parted. He uncurled his hands, though it looked as though it ached to do so, and brushed them on his pants. Light blue plaid, white t-shirt with the neck a little stretched out. He was still in his pajamas.

 _“No,”_ he answered quickly though it wavered in his voice. He closed his eyes, hearing the hesitancy and he dropped his chin to his chest. He took a minute, found his breath, and when he looked at you again, he softened, a smile pushing up at his lips though it seemed forced. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t think you’d be up so early.”

Bucky made his way to you, his hands gently settling on your shoulders and soothing their way down your arms to encase your hands in his own. You kept your stare on his chest, trying to find something to focus on, and it helped as he squeezed your hands. Something real. Something solid. Bucky.

“I thought you were training recruits,” you murmured.

“I was.” Bucky winced as it came out. “I _am._ ”

“Fury’s used to relying on Buck for this stuff,” Steve explained, slowly standing from his spot at the table. “He wasn’t happy when Bucky stepped down from the field. You’ve got to understand, he lost the guy who’s got more successful undercover OPs than anyone else in the Bureau. Bucky’s good at what he does. He put a lot of bad guy behind bars and saved a lot of lives.”

You knew. Probably more than most people.

“They can’t make him, can they?” You hated how small your voice sounded; frail like a child’s. You wrapped your arms around Bucky’s waist, afraid that if you lost contact with him for even a second, he’d be pulled away. You missed how Bucky glanced back in Steve’s direction for the same assurance.

“No, they can’t,” Steve replied calmly, a slight smile on his lips just barely noticeable.

You nodded, though it didn’t ease the racing in your heart. You held your arms tightly around Bucky, listening for his heartbeat to center yourself. “Do you want to?”

“What? Of course, not,” Bucky replied without skipping a beat. “Why would you even ask that?”

You shrugged. “You’ve saved so many people. You’re clearly meant for this work, Bucky. I don’t want to keep you from that.”

You knew what that felt like; to be held from the one thing that made you feel whole, to be pushed into the shadows of a life you were never meant for, to be cast off to something less than what you deserved. It was different from what Brock had done to you, but it still had the same result, didn’t it? You were keeping Bucky from the job he dedicated his life to.

Bucky shifted slightly in his stance and he gently began to pry your arms from around him. It caused a jolt of panic at first, but then his hands soothed their way up your arms, to cup at the side of your face, guiding you to meet his eyes; stunning painted brushstrokes of blues and greys and oceans and summer skies.

“You’re not keeping me from anything,” Bucky told you, a sincerity heavy in his voice. “I promised that nothing would take me from you again and I meant that. I’m not leaving you.”

Your eyes fell downcast, struggling to hold his gaze. “But if I wasn’t around–”

 _“But you are,”_ Bucky pressed, leaning forward to kiss your cheek, then the other, then the tip of your nose, until he pulled back with a smile. “I love you, sweetheart. That changes things. Before I met you, I would have taken any case I could get my hands on for the excuse to throw myself into a world that wasn’t my own. I would have jumped at the chance to pretend to be someone else for a while and lose myself in a new identity. But I don’t want that anymore. I _want_ to be here. _With you._ I want to spend all my days loving you. Is that so much to ask?”

Another kiss to your temple, then your jaw, your cheekbone, until you were smiling again. He was so beautiful when he looked at you like that, like he thought the whole world of a woman who spent so many years told she was nothing.

“I just don’t want you to wake up one morning and feel like you lost something by being with me,” you explained slowly, quietly, and your eyes trailed down to his chest to avoid his eyes.

“Not possible,” Bucky eased and you felt his lips as the touched the crown of your head. “There hasn’t been a morning that’s gone by where I haven’t woken up feeling like I’m the luckiest man alive.”

You looked up at him, awe and wonder, stunned silence, and he gently leaned forward to press a chaste kiss to your lips. Steve was still standing in the kitchen, averting his gaze, though he was smiling. Bucky brushed a thumb over your lips as he pulled back.

“Doesn’t matter what I do for a living,” Bucky continued. “You’re by my side. That’s all that matters.”

You grinned up at him, a laugh bubbling under the surface. “But you hate the recruits.”

“I don’t _hate_ the recruits,” Bucky argued, rolling his eyes when Steve began to snicker from the kitchen table. “They’re just little shits that would walk head first into a wall if I didn’t hold their hands.”

He was laughing again, bright and joyful, and tension hanging thick in the apartment began to dissolve away. Bucky turned back to Steve, his arms held tight around you.

“We good, brother?”

Steve nodded, a rare smile upon his face. “Yeah, man.”

“What will you tell Fury?” Bucky asked.

Steve pursed his lips. “Pretty sure if I remember your words correctly… _‘fuck off.’_ ”

Bucky winced. “Maybe not that.”

Steve shook his head, that same carefree smile on his face he reserved for quiet moments like these upon his face. It was really quite sweet when you thought about it. This broad, stoic man with the weight of his team on his shoulders who only learned to let go when he knew it was safe. He cared so deeply for his friends and you were proud that Bucky had someone in his life like Steve.

“Sam’s been itching for his turn in the field for a while now anyway.” Steve shrugged, beginning to gather his things and head to the door. “I’d say it’s about time we break in the new kid to fill his spot. Danvers is a hell of a recruit, Buck. You did good.”

“She won’t take your shit, Rogers,” Bucky teased as he squeezed you a little closer. “Sam’s either. Nat will love her.”

“She’ll fit right in.” Steve laughed.

There was a pause, a beat, and Steve held his stance by the door for a moment longer.

“I never thought I’d see a day when Bucky would turn down a job,” Steve said, leaning against the frame. There was a gratefulness in his eyes as he looked at you, a soft smile upon his lips. “It’s nice to see you happy, man. You got a good woman to thank for that.”

Steve nodded at you, an appreciation you weren’t sure you’d ever be able to grasp completely, and you smiled back at him. Bucky chuckled a little, heat rising in his cheeks and he nodded in agreement. As Steve, turned to leave, you felt Bucky press a kiss to your forehead; the little reminders that he was there, that he loved you, and he wasn’t going anywhere.


	22. Bonus Chapter: In Defense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the inbox request on tumblr: "I’m sure you’ll get a ton of requests for more Peter with BAON, so I’m putting in mine. Maybe a glimpse into what Peter and Bucky’s dynamic look like now. So glad this isn’t completely over with yet 🥰” by @stormygeorgia

“Don’t be mad.”

Bucky closed his eyes, pinched hard at the bridge of his nose as he listened to Peter’s labored breaths through the speaker of his phone. He glanced around the empty apartment, thankful Nat had swung by to take you out downtown because if you caught sight of Peter after a call like this, the kid wouldn’t be the only one in trouble.

“Again?” Bucky groaned, already reaching for his keys on the kitchen table. He could practically picture the way Peter often shrugged his shoulders and scratched nervously at the back of his neck. 

“He was talking bad about Y/n,” Peter explained simply. “I didn’t have a choice.”

It was all he had to say. Bucky still remembered the first day Peter showed up at the apartment with a black eye and a busted lip, blood dripping down his chin because he got into a fight with some kid at school. He had begged Bucky not to tell you and he kept his word. You didn’t need another layer of guilt on your conscious now that Peter was running head first into fist fights at school because some snot nosed punk couldn’t keep your name out of their mouth.

“Where are you?” Bucky asked as he locked the door behind him, quickly jogging down the stairs. Before Peter could answer, Bucky shouldered open the main door into the warm summer air, only to find Peter standing on the sidewalk with an apologetic expression on his face, phone held up to his ear.

“Hi Bucky.”

He looked worse than last time. His right eye was near swollen shut, red and puffy and gathering blue and purple along the edges. His lip was busted open down the center, blood trickling down his neck, and a jagged cut on his cheekbone from where a ring must have caught the skin. It was an injury Bucky was familiar with.

“You look like shit, kid.”

Peter chuckled, staring down at the sidewalk. “I know.”

“You’re lucky Y/n isn’t home.”

“She should still be at the office for another hour,” Peter nodded. He glanced up at Bucky with that puppy dog look in his eyes, big and round even through the swelling, and dammit, Bucky had a hard time saying no to the kid.

“Alright, alright, get inside,” Bucky caved, stepping aside from the door and gesturing for Peter to come in.

A smile broke out on his face, though he winced when it tugged at the split in his lip. Backpack still strapped at his shoulders, he bounded up the stairs, the box of pencils rattling inside his bag with every step.

He knew his way around the apartment and waited patiently for Bucky to unlock the door before he stepped out of his muddied sneakers, tossed his bag to the chair at the kitchen table and slumped onto the couch. A pillow was already held tight in his lap before Bucky even turned on a light.

“What was it this time?” Bucky asked as he made his way to the bathroom to grab the first aid kit. Digging through the drawers next to your makeup bag, hair pins, and cotton swabs, Bucky pulled out the small box. He made his way back to the living room to find Peter wringing his hands in his lap.

“I don’t even know the guy,” Peter replied casually. “He’s a senior, I think.”

Bucky sat down next to Peter, gesturing for his hand where his knuckles were bloody and scarred. Peter hissed as the alcohol wipe touched the skin.

“Apparently, there was some kind of special on the news last night about the Hydra takedown and, I don’t know, I guess they had a whole segment on Y/n,” Peter continued, his voice growing harder, angrier. It wasn’t a tone Bucky was used to hearing in the kid but he knew how much Peter cared for you. It didn’t surprise him at all.

“I didn’t hear about that,” Bucky commented as he wiped the dried blood from Peter’s hands and set the dirtied cloth on the table. 

He was usually more in tuned with those things in an effort to keep them from you. The months following the arrests and trials were hell for you. The constant reminders. The photographers planted outside your office and following you home. Looking over your shoulder to the point Bucky started escorting you to work and had Sam drive you home after. You didn’t need more of that.

Peter nodded, jaw clenched tight as Bucky wrapped is knuckles. “Yeah. This jerk kept talking about how Y/n should have gone down with the rest of Hydra, that she got off _easy._ It’s bullshit.”

Bucky had heard the whispers. He knew the gossip. He’d seen the people point in your direct and talk amongst themselves as you’d walk by. You tried to ignore it, tried to let it brush off your shoulder, but he knew how much it bothered you. Even with Rumlow dead and gone, he was still infecting your life, casting you to a shadow you didn’t ask for.

Bucky sighed, moving to work on the cuts on Peter’s face, though he had a hard time sitting still.

“He just wouldn’t shut up about it either,” Peter grumbled, wincing as the alcohol stung against his cheek. “Kept going on and on as if he had some high and mighty opinion on the whole thing. He even had the nerve to say that she didn’t deserve to walk free _‘after all she did’_ as if she wasn’t _manipulated_ and _blackmailed_ into an abusive marriage to a freaking _psychopath!”_

“I know, pal.” Bucky kept his voice even, his tone calm, but he felt that same rage. He’d grown tired of watching the whole world give their two cents on what you deserved and the nature of your heart. Everyone from esteemed journalists to late night hosts to twitter feeds and facebook. Everyone had an opinion.

“It’s not fair!” Peter hissed, tugging his head away as Bucky worked to clean the open wounds on his face. He clenched his jaw and stilled again, allowing Bucky to work. “That guy shouldn’t have been talking about Y/n like that. I told him to stop and he didn’t. I had to do something.”

Bucky exhaled, leaning back against the couch after he’d applied the last of the badges to the cut on Peter’s cheek. It was the best he was going to get.

“I get it, Pete,” Bucky shrugged. Peter looked at him with wide eyes, half expecting a lecture. Bucky shook his head. “I get why you did it. It’s not easy to hear that kind of stuff about someone you love. It takes a lot out of me not to throw punches at every guy that whispers under his breath as I walk by with her. I want to, but I don’t. Because I know it upsets her more when I put myself in situations where I can get hurt than if some asshole is talking shit about things he doesn’t understand.”

“But—”

“She knows when you’re avoiding her,” Bucky continued. “She’s smart, kid. She knows you’re not falling down the stairs and getting your knuckles scraped up like that.”

Peter slumped further into the cushions, sinking into the couch and tugging the pillow tight to his chest.

“I know you mean well,” Bucky said, putting a hand on Peter’s shoulder and give it a tight squeeze. “You’re looking out for her. You want people to know her the way you do. Just try to avoid the fist fights, alright? I think she’d be happier if you were in one piece than if some pretentious senior at your high school changed his opinion of her.”

Peter chuckled, a small smile breaking through. “Yeah, okay.”

“Good man.”

“Can I stay for dinner?” Peter asked, the boyish youth quickly returning to his voice.

“Gonna be hard to keep that swollen eye and the bandages from Y/n,” Bucky warned, a smirk upon his face as he hulled himself up from the couch.

“I know.” Peter shrugged. “Figure she probably knows anyway, right?”

Bucky chuckled, nodding. “Almost definitely.”

“Well then,” Peter jumped up beside Bucky. “Might as well make her spaghetti and meatballs to offset the blow.”

He was halfway to the panty before Bucky could even respond that you’d planned on picking up sushi on your way home. He smiled, watching at Peter scrambled around the kitchen in search of a pan, insisting he do the whole thing himself, and Bucky resided to texting you to skip the takeout.

He’d let Peter tell you the rest when you walked into an apartment filled to the brim with oregano and garlic bread.


	23. Bonus Chapter: Cheddar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> inbox request: “Please write a baon one shot or head canon or something where they get a cat that would make my cat person heart flutter.“ by anonymous

“Well, this certainly wasn’t the plan we had in mind for today,” Bucky chuckled, extending an arm around your shoulders as he curled up beside you on the subway.

A tiny little _meow_ cried from inside the carrier on your lap and Bucky quickly weaved his fingers between the metal openings in the front and pet at the top of the orange tabby’s head until he began to purr over the rumble of the subway tracks.

“We don’t even have a litter box, Buck,” you laughed, leaning your head against his shoulder to get a better look at the cat as he curled up closer to the edge of the carrier to give Bucky better access to the spot behind his ears.

“Hey, you were the one who was like ‘ _let’s go into the animal shelter even though I know there’s dozens of cute animals in need of adoption and Bucky won’t ever say no to me,’”_ Bucky teased, mimicking your voice rather poorly.

“Oh hush. You couldn’t say no to a face like this anyway,” you cooed just as the cat lifted his head, staring wide green eyes right up at Bucky. “Could he, Cheddar?”

“You’ve got a point.” Bucky grinned before he glanced up at the blur of the tunnel beyond the car window. “Come on. We’re next.”

Bucky grabbed the handle of the crate for you, hulling Cheddar to his right side as he took your hand in his left. Pushing through the bustle of the busy city, Bucky resided to call Sam for reinforcements.

Sam had a black cat of his own, though he came into ownership of Binx through an unfortunate breakup and his assertion that if she walked, he got to keep the cat. Now, Sam wasn’t a cat person, but his ex was and well, Sam was also very petty. Years later and that cat was Sam’s whole damn world. Maybe a little too much, but you found it sweet. Bucky mocked him relentlessly for it, but you were certain Sam would have his turn to tease Bucky soon enough.

“Sam should be at the apartment with food, bowls, litter, and everything else,” Bucky informed you as you stepped off the subway stairs and out into the sidewalk.

“Treats?”

“Of course.”

“Toys?”

“Who do you think I am?” Bucky scoffed playfully. “I’ve got an elite FBI taskforce on this. Cheddar will be more than satisfied, don’t you worry.”

Sure enough, Sam was waiting on the stoop of the brownstone with several bags at his feet. He lit up as you and Bucky came into view, his eyes drawn instantly to the carrier in Bucky’s hand.

“What a handsome boy,” Sam cooed, kneeling down beside the crate and peering inside.

“Aw thanks, brother.” Bucky smirked, to which Sam rolled his eyes hard enough you wondered if it physically hurt.

“You know damn well I’m talking to the cat, you fool.”

“It’s good to see you, Sam,” you laughed, releasing Bucky’s hand to hug Sam as his arms extended out for you.

“Always a pleasure, Y/n,” Sam replied, enveloping you into his chest as he shot a warning glare at Bucky from over the top of your head. “Come on, I’ll show you the fun stuff I brought.”

***

Sam didn’t stay long, but he helped set up the litter box and acclimate Cheddar to his new home. He sat on the floor beside the carrier, opened the door, and waited patiently for Cheddar to come out on his own while Bucky practically sat on his hands to keep from lunging at the cat and hulling it up into his arms. 

Once Cheddar sniffed around the carrier, he made his first steps out into the apartment. Bucky was in fits when he started to lick Sam’s hand first before moving on to explore the kitchen. Sam, it seemed, was thrilled by Bucky’s reaction.

A few hours later, after Sam had gone home, and you’d introduced Cheddar to each room of the apartment, to the litter box and the bowls of food and water in the kitchen, you sank down into a chair at the table.

A little tired after a long day, you glanced over to the living room to find Bucky sleeping soundly on the couch. The book he was reading had fallen from the tips of his fingers and landed softly on the carpet below, his arm hanging off the side of the couch. His light peppered snores meant that he was long passed out and wouldn’t likely wake until morning.

It was then you spotted Cheddar emerging from the bedroom. He paused when he noticed your stare, big green eyes meeting yours before he scampered across the floor to your feet. He brushed up along your ankles, purring sweetly as you bent down to scratch along his spine. His attention seemed to be interrupted by Bucky’s snores and his ears perked up.

Cheddar padded his way to the living room, tilting his head as he inspected Bucky thrown across the couch. A small sniff to Bucky’s hand, a lick to his fingers, and then, a jump as he landed on the cushions between Bucky’s thighs.

A cautious paw on the top of Bucky’s leg, a quick glance up at his sleeping face, and Cheddar braved a climb up to Bucky’s stomach. Without a sign of movement, Cheddar proceeded to curl himself onto Bucky, a soft purr filtering through the snores and the otherwise silent apartment.

You always believed that animals were exceptionally good judges of character. You’d never known a dog to respond to Brock with anything but bared teeth, warning barks, and growls. Even the ones he attempted to train to be as ruthless and unkind as he was didn’t answer to him the way he wanted.

But it was cats he held no patience for. He thought them to be cold and pointless because they often ignored him, hissed in his direction when he infringed on their space, or swatted at his hand when he reached at them. Even in the days he pretended to be decent, he couldn’t hide his true nature from the animals.

The thing with cats is that their love comes on their own terms. It’s not something you can control or manipulate and that infuriated Brock. It took patience and kindness, a nurturing of a bond, and that was never a capacity that Brock possessed.

But Bucky?

Bucky had patience unlike you’d ever seen; even when it was ripping him apart, even when it hurt, he held steady. Your year under Hydra together was enough proof of that. 

So, as Cheddar purred softly on Bucky’s stomach, having determined this man to be a safe and comforting place to lay, you found yourself surprised as you wiped away tears brimming in your eyes. Smiling alone to yourself, happy, and so impossibly in love.


	24. Bonus Chapter: Hope Haven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> inbox request: “Saw your post about BAON oneshots and a thought occurred to me. Does Reader ever recover even a little of her inheritance? Maybe she donates to women’s shelters?” by @amandatar-06

The bills were piling up on the kitchen table. Hidden under stacks of personnel files from the academy and a container of Thai takeout, sat dozens of unopened envelopes from the law firm you’d hired in an effort to unfreeze Brock’s accounts. You dug your fingers into your scalp, trying to find the willpower to look at the damage inside.

A year’s worth of legal battles and arrogant attorneys, only to be told that you’d never see a penny of your stolen inheritance. You’d signed it away in sound mind, they said. You knew what you were doing. It didn’t matter that you’d been drowning in grief and your husband saw an opportunity to manipulate you. The law didn’t care that Brock Rumlow took advantage of the woman he was supposed to love in order to fill his own pockets. You signed the damn forms.

So, your case was thrown out and you were thousands in debt for the trouble.

You’d been working back at Columbia for a while now, but there was no way you’d be able to cover the cost of the attorneys on your own and you weren’t about to ask Bucky for help, not after all he’d already done for you. You put so much on his shoulders and while you knew he’d carry the weight of the world for you with a goddamn smile on his face, there were just some things you wanted to do for yourself.

You didn’t miss the money. You’d been happier in this last year cramped up in a tiny one-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn than you had in years living in a mansion filled with expensive artwork and a full-time staff. You wanted the inheritance back for a reason; one you though might help alleviate some of the stone that had nestled its way into your chest the day you met Brock.

A flyer was crumpled up in your work bag beside you; folded and tucked securely in the side pocket. You gently pulled it into your lap and brushed out the wrinkles. At the top it read, _Hope Haven Women’s Shelter_ in large, purple block printed letters. Below it listed details of the address in Brooklyn, along with a 24/7 hotline, and an invitation to attend an open house this coming Saturday.

You’d kept in your bag for nearly two weeks. Not quite sure what to do with it. You hadn’t told Bucky about it either, unsure of how he would react. While Brock was in your past and you knew with absolutely certainty that Bucky would never hurt you – _hell,_ he’d cut off his own hand before it could strike you – you still felt that pull towards the shelter. There was no money left to donate, and you didn’t know if it was for yourself or just wanting to give back in any way you could, but you wanted to go.

Inner conflict and guilt and a strange mix of belonging all rolled into one. Part of you felt like you didn’t deserve to be there, to share a space with women who bravely sought out the help they needed to escape from violent and cruel men, when you’d succumbed for so many years. You’d been part of the problem, hadn’t you? Silent and pretty as you stood next to a powerful man who spent his money and time making the city a darker, more vengeful place. 

There was a voice, one screaming at you to believe that you’d been manipulated and taken advantage of and blackmailed unto submission. You did not have the choice to run or seek help when you needed it. You knew the power Brock held and what he could have done if he’d found out. 

And still. The guilt, the feeling as though you don’t belong, festered. 

You didn’t notice the front door unlatch as Bucky quietly made his way into the kitchen. So, as he came up behind you and leaned down to press a kiss to the crown of your head, it startled you.

You yelped, clutching the flyer tight to your chest as Bucky jumped back, hands up defensively.

“Hey, hey, it’s just me,” Bucky eased, sinking down to his knees beside you. He rested his hands on your thighs, watching as you slowly nodded at him, regaining your breath. “Sorry honey, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“No, it’s alright,” you said with a tired smile, “been a long day.”

The crinkling of the paper in your hands seemed to draw his attention down to your lap. He narrowed his eyes, curious.

“What’s this?”

You crumpled it tight into your grip. “Nothing.”

Bucky softened, watching the tension build quickly into your shoulders; leftover panic from your time with Rumlow. It was ingrained in you and it would take more than just Bucky’s kindness and his love for you to let it go. You needed time, years maybe, to relearn how not to be afraid and he understood that.

But he’d seen the flyers posted around campus on the days he’d come up to visit you. He saw the bright purple border on the paper clutched in your fist and recognized it from the bulletin board posted outside your office. He knew what you held in your hand.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Bucky said softly, glancing up to meet your eyes. Surprised, wide, and a little nervous, but he offered a smile in response, his thumb soothing over your knee. “I just want you to know I think it’s a good idea. I mean, you don’t need my support to go but… you have it.”

Bucky cleared his throat nervously, offering a shy sort of smile as he continued. “I could, um, go with you if you want? Or we can call Nat? I know she’d go with you in a heartbeat if you asked. Whatever you want, sweetheart. I just want you to be happy.”

You were still for a moment, stunned, before you nodded. It’s not that you expected anything less from Bucky but it still surprised you most days that anyone could be as wonderful as he was. Brock had done a number on you and Bucky spent most of his time helping to undo all the damage your husband had caused. Bucky filled the shadows and the holes with flowers and light and love and slowly, all the good in him outshined all the bad in Brock.

“Thank you,” you exhaled, feeling a weight lift off your shoulders.

Bucky nodded, a hand reaching up to brush your hair from your eyes. It rested on your neck, sweeping tenderly over your cheekbone. The most beautiful man you’d ever known.

***

Natasha picked you up ten minutes before the open house. You were pacing back and forth in the kitchen, sure to wear trenches into the tiles, while Bucky watched you from over the top of his book. Hands tugging at your shirt, eyes glancing back at the door every few paces, the anxiety was creeping its way through your entire body. Cheddar was weaving in and around your feet, daring you to trip over his tiny paws. 

“You don’t have to go today,” Bucky offered but you shook your head. 

“No, no. I need to do this.”

Bucky nodded, returning to his book without another word, though he still glanced up in your direction between paragraphs. 

The buzzer nearly startled you out of your skin as it rang out. Cheddar scurried across the tile and sprang up onto the couch with Bucky, nestling his way onto the top cushions of the backrest. 

Hand clutched at your chest, heart pounding a little faster, you quickly made your way to the door. 

“Your jacket, love!” Bucky called out behind you, rushing up from his position on the couch to help wrap you up in the raincoat. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, smiling at you with a sort of pride in his eyes that made your stomach twist to knots.

“I’ll be back soon,” you told him, though he waved you off. 

“Take your time. I’ll be here.” With that, Bucky returned to his place on the couch, book curled back up in his hands, blanket draped over his lap. 

You paused by the door, watching him for a second longer, wondering how it was possible that you found a man so understanding and supportive after all you’d been through. It was as if he were a gift provided from the heavens for walking through hell. 

As you made your way outside, locking the door behind you and descending the stairs, you found Natasha waiting patiently for you. Leaning against the exterior brick wall, arms folded over her chest, she smiled as you walked up to her. 

“Ready?” 

“I don’t know if that’s the right term for it, but I suppose.” You scratched at the back of your check, feeling the nerves dancing upon your skin. 

“You’ll be just fine, I promise,” Nat swore, placing a gentle hand on your back and guiding you down the sidewalk. Her hand didn’t leave you until she’d distracted you enough with old stories of Sam and Bucky at the academy and the rush of your heartbeat had eased. 

A few blocks and a short subway ride later, you found yourself standing outside a small, stoned building on the border of Brooklyn. It had little to identify it as a women’s shelter save for the small purple ribbon hung around the bannister. You stared up at it for a while, feeling a sudden sense of dread. 

“Hey, come on,” Nat grabbed your hand, giving it a tight squeeze, “you’ve got this.” 

You nodded, taking in a deep breath, though you did not release Natasha’s hand. Like an anchor keeping you afloat, she led you up the stairs and through the front door. 

Inside, dozens of women were talking amongst one another. Some in lavender t-shirts identifying themselves as volunteers and employees of Hope Haven, others mingling quietly by the refreshments table or sitting awkwardly upon the couches looking around in silence. It was clear some of these women were familiar with one another, with the house itself, and the sanctuary it offered, but for many, it was their first time wandering into such a place. 

You tried to avoid the startling discoloration on the neck of a woman sitting quietly on the couch by herself. Though Nat pulled you forward, you found yourself glancing back at the woman. She was stunning, beautiful in every way, but the expression on her face was one you recognized well; one of lingering panic, of the carpet sure to sweep out from under her feet, glances back at the door like she was expecting someone to come barging through. 

“Oh my god, is that Y/n Rumlow?”

You froze dead in your tracks. Natasha’s hand squeezed yours again, drawing you back to the ground. You could feel the tension radiate through Natasha’s arm, as if she were already on the defensive for you, but as you met the eyes of the woman who called your name, she began to soften. 

The woman stepped forward, a wide smile upon her face as she extended a hand to you; not to shake, but to hold. You gave her your free one cautiously, and she lit up. 

“It is such a joy to have you here,” she said. “My name’s Shavonne. I do my best to run things around here for these ladies.”

You nodded, still unsure why she singled you out. In your experience, that usually wasn’t for anything good. 

“We had the Hydra story on around here for weeks after the arrests last year,” she explained and several women around her nodded enthusiastically, smiling in your direction. “It was incredible what you did. The girls here were so enthralled, we had a watch party for the trial!”

Many of the women laughed and cheered in response. You looked around at them, stunned, as they smiled warmly back at you.

“You are exceptionally brave, Y/n,” Shavonne said and you could feel the sincerity in her words. “Thank you for coming today. We are so happy you’re here. Now, please! Enjoy the free food! Let me know if I can help you with anything at all.”

“I will,” you said, voice a little smaller than you meant, but she heard it. You supposed she must be used it by now with the amount of women in the home. 

As Shavonne walked over to chat with some of the women standing by the television, you felt Nat tug you a little closer. 

“You alright?”

You nodded, a smile tugging at your cheeks as a petite woman by the mini sandwiches waved at you like an old friend. 

“Actually, I’ll be right back,” you said, releasing your hand from Natasha’s hold. She narrowed her eyes on you, a little concerned, before she followed your gaze over to the woman on the couch you’d been eyeing as you walked in. 

“I’ll be right here if you need me.”

Slowly, you crossed through the room, passing by women who whispered your name with traces of excitement rather than fear, who smiled brightly at you as you caught their eye, who giggled amongst themselves as you returned their waves. You’d never experienced anything like it. 

You were used to people cowering in fear, whispering gossip under their breath, and turning their backs to you. These women welcomed you without a second thought, embraced you like their own. Whatever fears you had of not belonging, of not being enough, dissolved away. 

“Is this seat taken?” 

The women sitting alone upon the couch glanced up at you. She seemed a little startled by your presence, though she shook her head, and it was then you noticed the little boy sitting at her feet; tucked around her left shin, holding onto a toy plane as he weaved it through the air. 

“Your son?” you asked, sitting down beside her. She nodded, brushing a hand over his head. “He’s beautiful.”

“Thank you.” Her voice was small, a little raspy, and you didn’t dare to draw the connection to the discoloration on her neck. 

“This is my first time here, too,” you said slowly, glancing around the house. It seemed to surprise her. 

“Really?” 

You nodded. “I never had the courage to seek out a place like this when I really needed it. It’s nice to know it’s here, though. I’m hoping I can volunteer, actually. After everything I’ve been through, to end up as happy as I am with a man who is beyond kind and exceptionally loving, it feels right to try to pass some of that onto others, you know?”

She watched you as you spoke and you could tell by the way she nodded along that she knew who you were. 

“I thought you had a lot of courage,” she said after a moment, her fingers gently raking through her son’s hair. “Standing up the way you did… Working with the FBI to bring down Hydra and your own husband? It’s the kind of courage I dream of.”

“You’re here, aren’t you?” You smiled warmly at her, offering your hand and waiting for her to take it. She placed it into your grasp and you gave it a light squeeze. “You have _exceptional_ courage.”

She smiled at you, reflective tears brimming in her eyes. You pulled a small notebook from your bag, quickly ripping off the top sheet filled with notes for your next lecture, and scribbled down your number. 

“I’m here for you if you need me, alright?” You handed her the paper. “Call anytime.”

She nodded, stunned, and quickly inputted the number to her phone. “Thanks. I’m Nina, by the way. This is my son, Marcos.” 

“It’s really nice to meet you, Nina,” you grinned, peering around her legs to her son, “and you too, Marcos.”

“Hi, honey, do you mind if I steal Y/n for a second?” Shavonne swept in from behind the couch. 

Nina shook her head, a brighter smile on her face as she returned her attention to her son. You stood and followed Shavonne, glancing back to find two other women had moved in your place beside Nina and began to play with her son. She was laughing before you made it to the other side of the room. 

***

“So how was it?” Bucky asked as you closed the door behind you, back safely inside the warm glow of the apartment. 

Natasha had walked you back, grinning ear to ear at how excited she was to teach self defense classes once a month down at Hope Haven. She’d arranged it with Shavonne while you were talking with Nina. Shavonne had been thrilled to find out Nat was on the team that helped dismantle Hydra. It seemed many of the women had their own connections to the vile men in that organization. 

You’d asked if you could volunteer on a few weekends a month and Shavonne, as warm and welcoming as she was, gave you a t-shirt on the spot and helped you fill out the forms at the kitchen table amongst the bowls of chips and mini-cupcakes. 

You smiled the whole way home. 

Bucky was watching you from his place on the couch, likely having barely moved since you left, though he was noticeably further along in his book. Cheddar was curled up in his lap, the soft orange hue of the lamp cast over him, waiting patiently under a starry night sky for you to return. 

“Really good,” you said, shrugging off your coat and crossing the room to him. Cheddar jumped up to the top of the sofa as you crawled on top of Bucky, resting your head on his chest, arms curling around his sides. “Just really glad I found you.”

Cheddar purred softly beside you, his tail swinging down and brushing against your shoulder blades. Bucky swept your hair from your face, pulling you up to press a kiss against your lips, short and sweet, before you nestled back in against him.

“Me too, love.”

Bucky propped his book up on your back and began to read aloud. Safe and content. Warm and sound. Exceptionally and emphatically loved. 


	25. Bonus Chapter: To Be Happy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> inbox request: “is there ever a time where y/n sort of gets overwhelmed with how much her life has changed ?? but in a good way ??” by anonymous ❤️

“Wait, wait! You promised to tell us more about Hydra if we all did the reading this week!” one of the criminal justice majors enrolled in your 20th Century Literature course raised his arm desperately, moments before the end of class.

“I suppose I did,” you nodded, laughing as several other students, even the ones appropriately in the correct course for their major, nodded along eagerly. You took off your glasses and set them on the table. The whole classroom sank back into their seats as if watching a movie.

You didn’t give them much, just enough to keep them interested for more and willing to do the assigned readings. If it encouraged participation, you didn’t mind sharing what you’d learned about Hydra over the years. The kids were fascinated and it earned you a reputation around campus enough to have your classes filled within seconds of registration.

Today, you told them about the secret back room in the Lernaean. It had been a long time since you’d even thought about the club Brock had used to launder money for Hydra, but the kids seemed enthralled at the idea of a hidden door behind the bar.

As you dismissed the class for the day, gathering your things and ready to head home after three lectures and five hours of open office hours, you found a student waiting for you by the door. She held her books tight to her chest, nervously smiling at you as you caught her attention.

“Hi.”

“Hi, Daisy,” you chuckled, throwing your bag over your shoulder. “What can I do for you?”

“Oh.” She seemed surprised by your question, as if she were expecting she wouldn’t get that far. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I was wondering if I could schedule office hours with you? I was hoping you could help me with a paper I’m writing on—"

“It’s a little early to work on the final, Daisy,” you suggested with a smile, gesturing for her to follow you as you made your way out of the lecture hall, “but I appreciate your enthusiasm.”

“Actually, it’s for my women’s studies class,” Daisy blurted out, causing you to pause. You narrowed your eyes on her, waiting for her to continue. She clearly her throat. “Professor Hill asked us to pick a woman in history we admire and write about how they persevered when the whole world was against them.”

“Oh, Daisy,” you started, a little stunned, “I don’t know if I would be an appropriate choice for—”

“My dad was killed by Hydra when I was little,” Daisy explained quietly. “What you did, teaming up with the feds and taking down Hydra from the inside after all they did to you… It’s amazing. I know the CJ guys in this class are all caught up on the Hydra of it all, but I’d really like to be able to learn more about you and what it was like on the inside, why you decided to fight, and how you did it. I already ran it by Professor Hill and she was on board as long as it was okay with you.”

You watched Daisy for a minute, surprised by the confidence growing in her stance as she spoke. This was important to her and there were few people you’d be willing to share those kinds of stories with, but as she glanced up hopefully, you couldn’t help but smile.

“It’s okay with me,” you said, and Daisy nearly jumped off the ground. “You can add your name to the list outside my office for the time you’d like, okay?”

“Yes! Yes, of course! Thank you!” Daisy was already halfway down the hall, waving enthusiastically as she sprinted towards your office. You laughed to yourself as you watched her disappear amongst the crowd of students.

***

“You’ll never guess what happened at work today,” you said as you closed the apartment door behind you, quickly overcome by a wave of cumin and chili powder. 

_Taco night._

Chopped tomatoes, lettuce, cheese, and tortillas lined the table with tiny bowls filled with toppings and spices. At the edge, a chemistry textbook. You paused, narrowing your eyes.

Peter emerged from the bathroom, grinning wide as he spotted you at the front door. “You’re home!”

“I didn’t know you were going to be here,” you laughed, rushing in to give him a hug.

“Aunt May’s working late tonight and Bucky said _‘tacos’_ so I was on the first train over.”

“Obviously.”

“Give me ten minutes and we’re good to go!” Bucky called from the kitchen. He was dressed in an old pair of jeans ripped at the knees and a t-shirt that had gone through the wash a few too many times. It was faded and stretched at the neck, but he was comfortable and grinning wildly as he wafted the steam of the ground beef from the pan.

“I’ll move my stuff!” Peter cheered, lunging for the textbook and tossing it into his bag.

“Are you done studying?” you questioned to which Peter scrunched his nose at you.

“You sound like Aunt May.”

“That wasn’t an answer.”

“ _It’s taco night,_ Y/n!”

“Yeah, Y/n, it’s _taco night,”_ Bucky chimed in, smirking as Peter nodded along.

“If Aunt May calls over here wondering why I let you off the hook on studying for this exam, I’m blaming the two of you,” you conceded, sinking down into the chair and Bucky placed a margarita on front of you.

“Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

***

“Wait, that’s so cool,” Peter said, mouth half full of his four taco. “This girl’s writing an essay on you?”

“I guess so,” you shrugged, trying to play it off but the truth was you were far more excited than you let on. You hadn’t had a chance to tell your side of the story outside of the connections you made with the women down at Hope Haven and despite the fact that the only reader would likely be your good friend Maria Hill, it meant something to you.

“That’s amazing,” Bucky nodded, reaching for your hand under the table and giving it a light squeeze.

“Definitely better than that punk at my school who wouldn’t keep his mouth shut,” Peter grumbled, angrily biting into another taco as the hard shell cracked to pieces on his plate. “At least he learned his lesson.”

“Watch yourself, Peter,” you warned. “You don’t need to be defending my honor to a high school senior, okay?”

“Yeah, well, there’s a lot more kids talking about how cool you are anyway,” Peter shrugged casually. “MJ is probably your biggest supporter and most kids at the school are afraid of her so… no more fist fights for me.”

“Well good,” you laughed. “I like MJ.”

“Me, too,” Peter replied dreamily, a little caught up in his head to notice the hearts consuming his eyes. You glanced over at Bucky, laughing quietly amongst yourselves.

It was strange, you realized, this foreign feeling in your stomach. It came up every once in a while in moments like these; where Bucky sat comfortably at the seat to your left, his hand holding yours under the table, Peter sitting across from you going on and on about what colleges he was thinking about applying to.

It was a comfortable feeling, a _safe_ feeling, one you didn’t question whether it would be ripped out from under you or break apart at the seams. Something so simple, so domestic, that most people wouldn’t think twice about, but as you watched Peter and Bucky make their way into the kitchen to clean up, laughing amongst themselves as Bucky swatted Peter on the arm with a dishrag, it didn’t feel so simple. It felt extraordinary.

After all you’d been through, to survive the reign of Hydra, to escape the control of a man who was hellbent on keeping you under his thumb, to come out the other side to a man who loved you beyond what you thought capable, to a classroom full of eager students, to a family you never thought you’d have.

“You alright, honey?” Bucky called from the kitchen, his face softening as he noticed the way you were watching them.

You nodded, brushing away the tears under your eyes and offering him a smile that felt near contagious. “I’m perfect, Buck. Just really happy is all.”

Bucky smiled at that, extending up into his cheeks and wrinkling by his eyes. “Good. Stay that way forever, okay?”

You couldn’t help but laugh, nodding along as Peter came up behind Bucky’s shoulder and muffled out a _‘yeah!’_ between bites of shredded cheese. Cheddar scampered along the floor to sniff at the few pieces of cheese that had slipped from between Peter’s fingers, before he turned his head away in favor of the food bowl sitting in the corner of the kitchen.

Surrounded by your boys. Perfectly content. Safe. and Loved. 


	26. Bonus Chapter: Alone in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> inbox request: “I still have so many questions about Peter!! Does he have any trauma from working for HYDRA? Did May ever find out what happened?” and “I’m very curious to how May reacted to everything. Especially with what Brock had Peter do.” by anonymous ❤️

“Alright, kid, it’s getting late,” Bucky chuckled as he started to clean up the mess of the Monopoly board scattered around the kitchen table. Paper bills were thrown on the floor after Peter tossed his winnings up into the air and you were too busy laughing to care that he’d decimated your properties in a matter of four rounds across the board.

“What? No way, it’s still early,” Peter whined, glancing back at the clock though it read near ten at night.

“Come on,” Bucky gestured to the door, reaching for his keys, “I’ll give you a ride.”

“What if I just stayed here?” Peter tried, a slight edge to his tone that caught Bucky off guard. Peter cleared his throat. “I know I’ve got school tomorrow, but I don’t want to make you drive out to Queens just to drop me off. I’ve got clothes in my bag, see?”

He held up his backpack and, sure enough, it was already packed for an overnight stay; toothbrush included.

“We both know May wants you home on school nights, Peter,” you said reluctantly, though you paused as you noticed the way Peter was gripping at the sides of his chair. White knuckles and a slight tremor in his grasp.

“I know, but… please?”

There was something about the slight brake in his voice that made your heart clench. You exchanged a worried glance with Bucky as he slowly set down his keys and returned to the table without another word. Peter kept his stare on the small divots in the wooden table, unable to meet your eye.

“Peter, I don’t know—”

You were interrupted by your phone buzzing on the table. You thought about ignoring it until you saw Aunt May’s name pop up on the screen. Peter didn’t seem to notice, but you picked up the phone, gave a short nod to Bucky, and escaped to the bedroom. Only once you were behind the closed door, you answered.

“Hey Aunt, we were just talking about—”

“Can Peter stay with you tonight?”

You furrowed your brow, confused. Aunt May usually had pretty strict rules about having Peter home before midnight when he had school the next day. Otherwise, he’d end up sleeping his way through biology and find himself in detention again. She’d given you a firm talking to the day after Peter slept through his Chem test a few months back after spending the night with you and Bucky finishing your Harry Potter marathon.

“I would have called earlier, but we’ve been swamped,” Aunt May said, a little labored in her breaths. The bustle of the busy hospital could be heard in the background; steady beeps of machines, the murmurs of nurses and patients, the hum of the air conditioning above.

She sighed as she stepped into a quieter room. “I don’t want him home by himself.”

That surprised you. Aunt May had worked the night shifts regularly for years now. Peter was more than accustomed to taking care of himself and he never once complained about her late hours. If anything, he always said it gave him more freedom to play his games with Ned online past when Aunt May would usually allow.

You glanced back at the door, peering through the open slit at the frame to find Bucky and Peter talking quietly, though Peter’s shoulders still seemed rather stiff. He was playing with the tags on his backpack, twisting them in his fingers anxiously.

“Peter’s been having a hard time when it gets dark,” Aunt May admitted, a little quieter now, and your stomach dropped. “This is my first night shift in almost a year now. They were short staffed and I couldn’t say no.”

“I didn’t… He’s been… _What?_ ” You couldn’t find the right words with your heart stammering so quickly.

“It started that night he came home in a panic, demanding I close the blinds and shut off the lights,” she explained. “I believe this was the night James took a pretty bad beating from Brock, one that Peter would have likely endured if it wasn’t for your boyfriend.”

You sank down onto the bed, feeling light headed. You remembered the night Peter and you sat down with her, the first moment you were discharged from the hospital, and explained everything. She’d stared at you in disbelief, stunned that you could be wrapped up in Hydra, though her willingness to believe that Brock was a cruel and vindictive man came easily enough.

She’d been angry at you for weeks after Peter explained how he got roped into the mess, how he started transporting Cerberus and finally explained why he came home in a blind fear the night Brock threatened to beat him within an inch of his life. She knew it wasn’t your fault, that you’d done everything you could to protect him, but it was still _your husband_ who inflicted such fear into Peter’s life, a man _you’d_ brought into this family, whether you knew his intentions or not.

It took time and a little space, but she let that anger go. Only, it seemed the repercussions of that night extended beyond the faded scar on Bucky’s cheek and your Aunt’s slow forgiveness.

“He gets nightmares,” she finally said and you were certain your heart snapped completely in half. “They were pretty bad for a while. Screaming bloody murder at near two in the morning and thrashing about until it woke the neighbors. Took a long time to calm him down after I got home from work in the mornings.”

Your hand cupped over your lips, trying to hold back tears. “I had no idea. God… I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, honey,” Aunt May assured you. “It hasn’t happened in a while since I’ve switched to day shifts, but I think he’s afraid to be home by himself in case it happens again. He’s embarrassed about it. It’s why he hasn’t told you, but… he needs you, Y/n.”

“Of course,” you choked out, brushing away the tears as they slipped down your cheeks. “Of course, he can stay. He could move in if he wants.”

Aunt May laughed a little at that and it forced a smile through the tears as they touched over your lips.

“Thank you, honey,” she said, and you could feel the warmth radiating from her voice. “I’ve got to go now, but take care of yourself. James, too. Or… Bucky, I suppose. I always get that mixed up. I think Peter feels safer around him anyway. For good reason. Watch out for your cousin, okay?”

“I will,” you nodded, pushing a smile she couldn’t see.

After you hung up, you took a moment to collect yourself before heading back out to the kitchen. Making sure to stop in the bathroom to clear your eyes of the leftover redness, you walked out of the bedroom to find Peter and Bucky sitting on the couch watching old reruns of The Office. Peter was laughing hysterically while Bucky leaned back on his phone, having seen the episode about a dozen times though it was brand new to Peter.

He caught your eyes as you stepped behind the couch, raised an eyebrow at you as he noticed the clench in your jaw and the cautious way you approached Peter.

“Good news, kid,” you announced and Peter jumped up from the couch to face you, a nervous look on his face, “you can stay.”

“Yes!”

Peter was already halfway to the pantry to start popping a bowl of popcorn before you could even slump down on the couch beside Bucky. You sank into Bucky’s side, curling up against him.

“Promise me you’ll always watch out for him,” you mumbled quietly, turning over Bucky’s shoulder to watch as Peter skipped around the kitchen in search of the salt.

“Hey, you know I will,” Bucky soothed, running a hand up your arm. He knew you’d explain later, long after Peter fell asleep amongst a fortress of pillows and blankets on the couch, so he didn’t press it further.

The microwave beeped and within moments, Peter was back on the couch beside you with a bowl of popcorn in his hands as he waited for Bucky to start the next episode. He had such a capacity for love and joy and it was infectious beyond belief that it broke your heart to know he’d been suffering silently all this time from the trauma he endured at your husband’s hand. Another fragment of Brock’s reign of terror upon your family.

“What?”

You blinked, not having realized you were staring. Peter narrowed his eyes on you.

“You alright, Y/n?”

“Of course.” You nodded, pushing out a smile. He was about to press play when you grabbed his hand, drawing his attention back. “You’re always welcome here, you know? Whenever you want. No questions asked. Okay?”

Peter stared at you, confused, before his lips curved up into that boyish smile you adored. “Okay.”

“You better start the episode soon, kid,” Bucky smirked from his end of the couch. “Otherwise tomorrow morning you’ll be sleeping through another pop quiz and your aunt will have our heads.”

Peter laugh at that, setting the popcorn on your lap to give everyone easy access to the bowl. He pressed play, curled his knees to his chest and settled in, already smiling ear to ear within the first few minutes. There was a comfort in that, a safety, and you didn’t dare wake him when he fell asleep on your shoulder before the end of the episode.

He didn’t stir until morning.


	27. Bonus Chapter: James

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> inbox request: “Hii, I was thinking that you could write for the By Any Other Name one shots about (all) the times she still called him ‘James’?“ and “…reader ever gets triggered back to any traumatic situations that happed when she was with brock…” by anonymous

“Don’t get cocky just because you survived your first assignment,” Bucky warned, rolling his eyes as Sam sprawled out on the chair in Bucky’s office. Wide toothed grin and the lipstick of an agent on his cheek welcoming him back to HQ after four months under in a biker gang outside of Albuquerque, Sam’s ego had nearly tripled.

“I can and _I will_ ,” Sam replied with a snort, sinking further into the chair and kicking up feet up to rest on the desk.

Before Bucky could retort, a short vibration from his cell buzzed against his pocket. He didn’t have a chance to speak as he put the phone to his ear before the voice of a woman came through, firm and calm, though there was a slight edge in her tone. A bated breath. And then – 

“Is this Bucky Barnes?”

Bucky narrowed his eyes, throwing a look at Sam that quickly faded the playful smile from his face as he straightened in the chair. 

“Yes. Who’s this?” 

“My name’s Maria. I work with Y/n at the university,” she explained, a little rushed. “Somethings happened… a fire in the break room and… well… she keeps asking for James.”

Bucky’s stomach dropped.

It was rare when you called him by that name. In the beginning, it had slipped out on occasion; little moments here and there when you were absorbed in your book or focused in the kitchen and the unconscious habit spilled through the cracks. It was always followed up with dozens of sweet apologies because you knew how much it meant to him when you called him by his name – _his real name –_ even though he told you as many times that he didn’t mind.

But lately, he only heard that name through your screams in the middle of the night, under the faint glow of moonlight seeping in through the curtains and sweat beaded on your forehead, through stammering heartbeats and tears streaming down your cheeks. When you couldn’t quite remember where you were or the last year since your husband had died and you’d been freed from under his reign. It disoriented you, threw you back into the midst of Hydra and James Karpov and sometimes it took longer than Bucky could bare before you came back to him.

Maria sighed. “I don’t know who James is, but I thought you might be the next best bet.”

“Y-yeah,” Bucky chocked out, snapping himself from the strange sense of shock. “I’m on my way.”

He lunged for his keys, gave Sam a short grimace to which he nodded in understanding, and rushed out the door.

“What happened? Is she hurt?” Bucky questioned as he sprinted through the halls, pushing past agents and shoving aside interns carrying dozens of files in their hands.

“I couldn’t find any new burns,” Maria confirmed, though there was a trembling ache in her voice she was clearly trying to push aside. “She seems alright physically. I don’t think she got too close to the fire, but… I’ve never seen her like this before. She won’t say a word to anyone without James. Do you know who she’s talking about?”

Bucky gritted his teeth as he flung open the car door, slid inside, and threw it into reverse. “Yeah, I do.”

Sam must have called in for a police escort it seemed, because they met him at the gate with flashing lights and sirens at the ready. Bucky told them through the windows he needed to get to Columbia as fast as possible, and they nodded without question, even though his voice was wavering in every syllable.

By the time he got there, as he burst through the front doors and raced through the halls, it felt like he was drudging through sand, through mud up to his waist, with anvils tied to his ankles and weights shackles on his shoulders. He didn’t stop to pay attention to the students as they stared at him as he ran past.

He found Maria standing at the edge of the hallway next to a fireman and a yellow tape blocking off the area. She softened as he saw him sprinting towards her. Maybe she noticed the sweat on his shirt or the panic in his eyes, but she stepped aside quickly and gestured for the fireman beside her to do the same.

“She’s down by the break room,” Maria told him. “I couldn’t get her to move. EMTs are with her but I’m not sure if she let them examine her yet.”

Bucky nodded, muttering out a short ‘thank you’ before he pushed down into the hallway.

Sure enough, there you were. Sitting on the floor, knees tucked up to your chest, staring straight ahead at the lockers opposite you. There was a vacant look in your eye as you ran your right hand across the scars on your left; discoloration and raised edged that extended around your wrists where the wires had once dug through your skin and the scorch of a fire burned.

An EMT was standing beside you, trying to grab your attention, but you wouldn’t even look at him. He exchanged a look with his buddy as they noticed Bucky approaching. He gave them a quick flash of the badge tucked into his pocket and they stepped back.

Slowly, Bucky knelt down at your side. He could see the faded burn marks on your forearms, nearly seamless to the color of your skin, but still raised and distorted, though they were clearly from the fire over a year earlier. There didn’t appear to be any new marks; no burns on your clothing or red patches upon your skin save for the imprints of your nails upon your hands and you dug them in for relief.

“Y/n?” he called gently, though you didn’t turn in his direction, almost as if his voice were miles away. 

He’d only seen you like this once before; the night Rumlow had roped Peter into the underworld of Hydra’s crimes. You’d been so still, so petrified, that you practically looked right through him. It took a while for you to come back to your surroundings, to recognize where you were. He thought about what your friend Maria had said and who you were asking for. 

“Sweetheart, it’s me. It’s James. I’m here,” Bucky eased, soothing a hand along your shoulder. You blinked a few times, recognizing his voice, his name, and you turned to him.

“James?” you whispered, relief quickly sweeping through you. You threw yourself into his arms, causing him to stumble back against the wall, but he held you steady.

“Yeah, honey. I’ve got you.”

He could feel the tear marks on his skin where you pressed your face to the crook of his neck. He tried not to stiffen his body, to prevent the muscles from turning to stone and his hands from curling to fists. He couldn’t stand that Rumlow still had this power over you.

It made his blood boil and rage churned like fire in his chest, but he held onto you with the tenderness you needed. He nodded as you called him James, as you stroked your fingers through the short wisps of hair at the nape of his neck.

It took a few minutes, but eventually, you pulled back. You seemed to recognize what happened, remembered the fire as your turned back to look at the break room and the firemen exiting the building. Realization clicked and you glanced up at him; eyes red with tears.

“Bucky?”

Instant relief. 

He offered you a gentle smile, prepared, because he knew the wave of apologies that would follow. He’d hold you in his arms, whisper over and over again that it wasn’t your fault, that he didn’t mind you called him James, that he understood. You didn’t always believe him, but he tried.

***

That name quickly became a warning. You’d loved James Karpov, but you loved Bucky Barnes, too. It mattered to you that you called him by _his_ name, no matter how many times he told you otherwise. So, when you used that name, when you called him James, he knew something was wrong.

“Agent Barnes?”

Bucky glanced up at the intern standing in the door frame; nervous grimace on his face and a tie hung a little loose around his neck.

“You have a visitor, sir.”

Bucky shook his head. The sun had already gone down hours ago and he’d been up for days trying to find a connection in the financial records of a white-collar businessman to an underground trafficking ring for Sam and the rest of his former team. It meant another all-nighter at the office, but he knew Steve wouldn’t have asked if they didn’t need the help.

“It’s late, Miles,” Bucky sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “See if they’ll reschedule for tomorrow. I’ve got a lot of work to do on this case.”

“Sir, I really think you should see this one.”

Miles stepped aside, moving back to his desk sitting outside Bucky’s office, and leaving the entrance open. Then, almost as if he were imagining it, Bucky heard a muffled _meow_ just beyond the door.

“James?”

Bucky dropped the file in his hands as you approached the edge of his office. Dressed in leggings and a sweatshirt two sizes too big for your frame, dark circles under your eyes, and Cheddar held tight in your arms amongst a pile of blankets inside his carrier, you looked as though you hadn’t slept in days.

“Y/n?” Bucky walked around the side of his desk, making his way to you and gently pulling the carrier from your hands and setting it upon the floor. “What are you doing here?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” you replied with a shrug. 

It had been two days since he was home. It happened sometimes, not often, but enough that you knew what it meant; that the team needed him. You understood, you always said as much, and Bucky called when he could, had takeout delivered to the apartment for you and promised to make it up to you when he got home.

But something was different this time.

“I, um,” you started, glancing around the office nervously. “I keep thinking I’m seeing things. In the dark. In the shadows.” You cleared your throat as Bucky furrowed his brow, a sort of embarrassment seeping through. “I keep seeing Brock.”

Bucky didn’t know what to say. He led you to the couch in the corner of the room and as he eased you down, he turned to find Miles closing his office door with a sad smile. Bucky leaned down and opened Cheddar’s carrier, letting the cat roam freely around the office, though he decided rather quickly to jump up onto the couch beside you and curl up against your thigh.

“I know it’s crazy,” you said, running your fingers along Cheddar’s spine as he began to purr, “but I… I keep wondering… what if he’s out there? They never found a body, right? I mean… it’s possible he escaped and—”

“It’s not,” Bucky interjected as gently as he could. He remembered the vacant look in Rumlow’s eyes, how he dropped to the ground in a mess of his own blood. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind. As you looked at him again, there were tears in your eyes. “I promise you, sweetheart. He’s dead. He can’t hurt you.”

“I want to believe that,” you whispered, stare dropping down to the floor.

Bucky could see the tension in your jaw, in your shoulders, and how your eyes flashed over to the windows. He pressed a short kiss to your temple and let the silence take over. It was comforting, just listening to the crickets outside and the typing of Mile’s keyboard outside the office door.

“James?”

“Yeah, honey?”

“Can I stay here?” you asked, voice as small as a child’s. “With you?”

You looked at him with a strange kind of hesitation in your eye, like you might be afraid he’d turn you away. It broke his heart, but he tried not to let it show and pushed out a smile instead.

“Of course, love. I’ll see if we can find some blankets for you, alright?”

You nodded, relief quickly spreading through you as you pulled Cheddar into your arms, hugging him tight to your chest. Bucky quickly got up and opened the door a crack to find Miles sitting at his desk, typing away.

“Hey, kid,” Bucky started, “can you track down some—”

“Already got them, sir.” Miles grabbed a stack of blankets from under his desk and a cushion he must have stolen from the lounge and handed them to Bucky.

Bucky nodded, taking them into his arms. Miles was a smart kid. He overhead a lot more than he should, but he never asked questions, never pried, never so much as considered gossiping to the other interns about the personal details of Bucky’s life. Bucky made a note to write him a hell of a recommendation letter.

“Go home, Miles. I’m good for tonight.”

“You sure?”

Bucky smiled. “Yeah.”

Miles jumped up, gave him a quick nod, and practically jogged his way to the elevator.

As Bucky made his way back into the office, he turned to find you already asleep on the couch. He paused, watching as Cheddar tucked himself against your chest as you laid on your side. Your hand was still rested on Cheddar’s back. The cat looked up at Bucky as he approached, his purring loud enough to overshadow the crickets outside.

“You take good care of her, huh?” Bucky whispered to Cheddar, scratching behind his ears. He purred a little louder in response.

Then, Bucky draped a blanket over your legs, letting it fall by your waist. He leaned down and brushed the hair from your eyes, pressed a kiss to your temple, and slowly made his way back to his desk. He had a lot of work to do, but a few glances over at your sleeping form and the ease with which you slept were enough to keep him going through dawn.

***

“That smells incredible,” you gasped as you walked past a bakery in Queens. 

You dragged Bucky by the hand to the window where you could see dozens of rows of cookies lined up inside; gooey and warm and wafting through the air enough to make your stomach growl. You turned to him with that pleading look in your eye, teeth biting down on your lower lip.

“Alright, alright,” Bucky chuckled. “I’ll be right back.”

You grinned, clapping your hands together as you waited for him outside. It was a small shop, with barely enough room to walk around inside without knocking into the tables filled with sweets, so you opted to wait by the edge of the bakery. 

The sun was setting into a beautiful orange and pink in the distance, and the street lamps barely illuminated the alleys beyond the shop. Across the street, you watched as a young man walked by with two dogs, whistling to himself with every bounce in his step. You smiled.

“Ah, what do we have here?” a voice growled from behind you.

You jolted, heart skipping a beat as you whipped around to face the man standing behind you. Tall, burley, with a long-jagged scar along his jawline, you recognized him only as Markovich; one of the men who worked at the docks under your husband. Ex-husband. _Dead_ husband.

“It’s good to see you, _Mrs. Rumlow_ ,” Markovich sneered and suddenly, a hand snacked around your forearm, digging razor sharp into your skin and you felt the violent tug as he dragged you into the alley. 

You couldn’t speak, could hardly move, you wanted to scream but you couldn’t find your voice. It all happened so fast. You couldn’t have prepared for it.

Your back slammed to bricks, head pounding in the effort as Markovich pinned you to the wall. 

“I’ve been looking for you for a while. The pretty little bitch that put Hydra in chains…”

Markovich drew a line down your cheek to your jaw with his finger. You struggled to stretch out from his reach, but he held you firm.

“But I slipped through the cracks, didn’t I?” he continued, sinister grin upon his thinned lips. His hand slid lower, daring to touch over your neck, your collar bone, over the rapid rise and fall of your chest and the thunderous pounding of your heart. “Now, I’m going to take what’s mine, take what’s been _owed to me_ now that you’ve destroyed Hydra. Stay quiet for me, Mrs. Rumlow.”

You screamed.

_“James!”_

****A hand slammed down over your mouth, dirty and suffocating. You desperately looked up to the streets, but they were empty, filled only with the dark overcast of the sunset and faded flickering of the street lamps.

“Karpov’s dead,” Markovich spat. “He can’t help you now.”

You whimpered, tears burning in your eyes. Your whole body felt numb, shaken, frail, and as Markovich put a hand on your thigh, sliding up your skin and seeking under the hem of your dress, a surge of rage came over you.

You raised your knee with as much force as you could swing between his legs and suddenly, Markovich doubled over in pain. He released you in favor of clutching his crotch, and you stumbled back towards the streets.

“James!” you screamed, voice breaking in the effort. _“James!”_

Bucky swerved around the corner in a panic, paper bag dropped to the concrete as he saw you rushing towards him. You slammed into his arms, shaking terribly, and Bucky only had seconds to react when he sat Markovich stumbling back to his feet. Bucky quickly pried you from his arms though it killed him to do so.

“Sweetheart, I need you to call Steve.” Bucky kept his eyes on Markovich.

You shook your head. “James, I… I….”

“Do it now,” he ordered, firmer than he ever wanted to be with you, but as he watched Markovich crack his knuckles, baring his teeth, Bucky knew he didn’t have much time. He kept a hand on your shoulder, stilling you at the edge of the street, before he made his way into the dark shadows of the alley.

“You’re supposed to be dead, Karpov,” Markovich growled.

“Yeah, well, you’re supposed to be in jail, aren’t you?” Bucky shot back. “We’ve had outstanding warrant for your arrest for over a year.”

“Should have figured you were a narc.” Markovich spat, sizing Bucky up as he stepped forward. “Always so soft with the boss’s wife. Heard you were fucking her too. Tell me… was it good?”

Bucky clenched his jaw. Over his shoulder, he could hear your voice quietly on the phone with Steve. It wouldn’t take long. Maybe a few minutes before backup arrived. He didn’t like to carry his firearm when he was off duty, especially around you because you’d be subject to enough violence in your life and you didn’t need the constant reminder that Bucky had perpetrated it himself, too. But now, as he stared down the rather large figure of a man with an intent to kill, he seconded guessed his choice to leave it at home.

Markovich rushed forward, lunging straight for Bucky’s neck, which he was able to side step easily. He had more agility than Markovich and he’d use it to his advantage. He got in a few hits before Markovich landed a punch, but when he did, it nearly sent Bucky spiraling to the ground.

“James!” your voice yelped out from behind him. He didn’t dare turn around.

It took until the both of them were panting and Markovich has a steady stream of blood down his nose and Bucky was limping on his left ankle before the cops arrived. 

They rushed into the alley, separated Markovich to the wall and cuffed him. Bucky didn’t say a word as Markovich shouted at him through the window of the cop car, threatening him, threatening you.

Hydra didn’t have resources anymore. Markovich couldn’t hurt either of you the way Rumlow had once threatened. Steve would find a way to make sure Markovich stayed silent. It might mean a reduced sentence or privileges behind bars, but he’d keep the two of you safe. Bucky didn’t doubt that for a second.

“Oh, thank god, James,” you rushed towards him, throwing yourself into his arms. It was nearly suffocating how tight you were holding him, but he didn’t mind. You needed this, needed to remember that he was real and safe, and maybe he needed that too.

“I’m alright,” he exhaled, wiping the blood from his cheek. He pulled you back just enough to see your face. “Are _you_ okay? I shouldn’t have left you out here alone. I didn’t think— I should have come faster— I—”

“I’m okay,” you confirmed, leaning up to press a kiss to his cheek. “But I guess ‘okay’ is relative.”

He chuckled at that, nodding as he pulled you back to his chest. “I’ve got cookie dough in the freezer and that movie you’ve been wanting to watch on rent. You up for that?”

He could feel your smile against his chest.

“Yeah, I’m up for it.”

Bucky gave a short nod to the officers clearing the scene behind him and guided you back to the sidewalk. It was a short walk back to the apartment from where you were.

“Hey Bucky?” you asked, and he felt a wash of relief in his own name.

“Yeah, honey?”

“Thanks for keeping your promise.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “What promise?”

“To always protect me,” you said simply, squeezing his hand a little tighter.

Bucky nodded, a soft kind of smile pushing at his cheeks. “Always, sweetheart. Always.”


	28. Bonus Chapter: If You Change Your Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> inbox request: several requests for a proposal (though I took some liberties with it) from a few anons, @autonomicrogue, and @thefallenbibliophilequote. Inspired by @searchingforbucky‘s question, “I wonder if [the marriage to Rumlow] affected her views on marriage and maybe she thinks that marriage is a fraud or is unnecessary to a relationship.”

“What is that?” 

You stared at the small velvet box sitting in the base of Bucky’s hand, heart stammering in your chest and a lingering weight of dread sinking in your stomach, though you desperately tried to push it away.

“It’s a ring, sweetheart,” Bucky chuckled, grinning ear to ear. He was sitting up in bed, comforter draped down around his waist and exposing the bare skin of his chest.

“I can see that,” you replied breathily, eyes glancing between Bucky’s goofy smile and the simple gold band propped up inside the box. It held a small gem stone at the center. Stunning in color. Humble and delicate in comparison to what Brock had made you wear. Your stomach twisted. “I thought we talked about this…”

“We did.” Bucky nodded.

“And yet here you are… with a ring…”

“Yes, here I am.”

Marriage was not something you ever thought you could stomach again, even with a man as wonderful as Bucky. It felt like nothing more than a contract, a binding agreement, and you had been so sure the first time around, you couldn’t bear to let yourself fall into that same heartache again. You couldn’t be trapped if you never got married, right?

You had to remind yourself over and over again that Bucky _was not_ Brock. He would never hurt you the way your ex-husband had. But that panic still lingered. It still tore at you on nights few and far between, enough to keep you from saying ‘yes’ when Bucky asked.

“I’m not proposing,” Bucky clarified.

You raised an eyebrow. “Kinda looks like you are.”

He shook his head, that same infectious smile still upon his lips. “Don’t get me wrong, I want to marry you. I want to stand up in front of everyone we know and give myself over to you for the rest of our lives.”

You heart skipped, stomach twisted, and you were surprised that it felt good. You shook the feeling away.

“But this,” Bucky continued, holding the ring up, “ _this_ is not an engagement ring. Think of it more as a _I-Promise-To-Love-And-Cherish-You-For-As-Long-As-You’ll-Let-Me_ ring. No marriage required.”

“Bucky,” you warned, though a smile was growing upon your lips. He sank back down onto the mattress beside you, holding the ring up in your view. “I don’t know if I’ll ever change my mind about getting married again.”

“I know,” he replied simply. “I’m not asking you to. I don’t need a piece of paper to prove how much I love you. The party would be kind of nice though…”

_“Bucky…”_

“I’m just saying,” he smirked, pleased by your laughter as you curled up beside him. He softened a little as he brought the ring back down to the bed. “You don’t have to wear it. I just thought… I wanted to give you something to remind you that I’m yours. Always. If you’d still have me when I’m old and grey.”

You set a hand on his cheek, drawing his attention back to your eyes, hoping to see a glimmer of that beautiful smile again. “I’ll want you as long as I live, Bucky. I’m not going anywhere.”

You didn’t know how to tell him that marriage felt like a death sentence. It felt like the final nail on the coffin that Brock had suffocated you under and you couldn’t bear the thought of poisoning what you had with Bucky with something as trivial as a paper signed in front of a judge.

But you loved him. You loved him so much it ached and you knew you wanted to be with him for the rest of your life. You knew you wanted him to be your family. He already was.

You glanced down at the ring in his hand. He put so much thought into it. He knew your stance on marriage, how its sanctity had been twisted and abused to manipulate you for years. So, he found a different way to offer a physical reminder of his commitment to you.

“Can I see it?”

Bucky’s eyes lit up as he pulled the ring from the box and handed it to you. You examined it for only a moment before you slid it onto your left ring finger. It fit perfectly.

“You don’t have to wear it on that finger if you don’t want,” Bucky offered, always so attentive.

“I like it there,” you replied with a shrug, leaning into his side and admiring the way it reflected in the moonlight as it seeped through the curtains.

“So, is that a yes?” Bucky chuckled nervously.

You smirked. “I don’t think you ever asked a question.”

“You gonna let me love you forever?”

You laughed, smiling so wide it ached in your cheeks. You settled in against him side, watching how the small band around your finger glistened as the light touched it.

“I can do that,” you replied with a teasing smile.

“You ever change your mind about walking down an aisle, just say so,” Bucky added with a playful smile. He laughed as you pushed at his chest, rolling you on top of him and caging him against you. He pressed a kiss to your nose.

“I’ll let you know if that ever happens, alright?” you rolled your eyes, laughing until your stomach hurt. “Don’t hold out hope, Bucky.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

***

You twisted the band around your finger, a mindless habit you’d come to find comfort in as you waited for Bucky to join you at the table. It was a little over a year since the ring had found a home on your hand and you hadn’t taken it off since. 

You found yourself rubbing at the inside of the ring with your thumb when you were anxious, fidgeting with it as you spun it around your finger; it became a reminder of your security, and safety, with the man you loved.

From your seat, you could see Steve and Peggy make their way to the dance floor. You’d never seen him smile as much as you had that evening; bright, shiny blue eyes and dimples up into his cheeks. Dressed in a navy suit, he led his bride to the center of the floor, spun her around to give the guests a good look of the stunning ivory dress, before he pulled her into his arms. Then, it was as if the rest of the room faded around them and they were the only two left.

“They look happy, don’t they?”

Bucky appeared on your left, sinking down into the chair with a grin on his face and a flush of pink in his cheeks from the drink in his hand. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your cheek before he turned back to the dance floor to watch his best friend dance with the love of his life.

You fiddled with the ring again, glancing down at the band and then to Steve and Peggy on the dance floor, and then finally to Bucky. The smile on his face wrinkled up by his eyes and there was a genuine joy there for his friend, to see him so happy, to publicly commit the rest of his life to the woman he loved.

You wondered then, what that would feel like. You didn’t remember being as happy as Steve or Peggy the day you’d married Brock. You hadn’t known his true intentions at the time, but maybe you’d sensed something was wrong, because even on what was meant to be the happiest day of your life, there was still a lingering sense of dread, a frown that weighed on your lips when you tried to smile, a darkness that held back the light in your eyes.

Steve couldn’t stop smiling. Peggy had tears in her eyes as she stared up at him. Completely enamored in their own world together. So impossibly in love that they wanted the whole world to know, wanted to confess it in front of their friends and families and believed so strongly in it they signed it to law. Certainty. Devotion.

It was how you felt about Bucky.

“Hey, Bucky?”

Bucky turned to you, that sweet look in his eye as if he’d been imagining you at the center of the room with him, dressed in white and taking his breath away. He raised an eyebrow, grabbing your left hand and bringing it to his lips. He kissed at your knuckles, the back of your hand, and then, the ring on your finger.

“I’ve changed my mind,” you said simply. There was no need for clarification.

Bucky surged forward and kissed you. He laughed against your lips, almost as if he couldn’t contain the excitement, the joy, _the relief_ , as it spilled over the edges. When he pulled back there was a renewed determination in his eyes and he didn’t let go of your hand as he settled back into his seat, watching as Steve and Peggy danced.

Leaning into Bucky’s side, finding your heart beating a little faster, you watched as Steve and Peggy finished their dance. Bucky’s thumb gently ran along your hand, simple reminders that he was there, that he was real and safe and entirely yours. You felt for the band on your left hand, how it pressed between your fingers, how it brushed up against Bucky’s. You couldn’t wait for him to have one of his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok my friends, this is the end. I hope you’ve enjoyed this series as much as I have. I can’t even begin to tell you how much I’ve loved sharing it with you and how incredible it’s been to have your support. So much love to you all ❤️


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